


Chaos Dreaming

by northbound



Series: Little King [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Pining, War, established frenemies, historical female characters, probably, slowburn, wikipedia as a main source of research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14039448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northbound/pseuds/northbound
Summary: Alfred only knew war to bring death. He never expected it to bring Ivar back to Wessex after disappearing ten years ago. He certainly didn't expect that he would be trying to make peace with the man who had once promised to kill him. Alfred was learning that life rarely did what was expected, especially when one was dealing with Ivar-the-Boneless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 of the series! You don't need to read the first two parts to understand this one, but i do recomend reading them if you've got the time. Basically what you need to know is that soon after Alfred became king of wessex (mid season 5 lets say, and diverging from there) he takes his mothers place as a hostage in the heathen army. He and Ivar become pseudo friends, Ivar pines, screws up, ends up promising his brothers that if they let Alfred go he'll stay away from Kattegat, then Ivar leaves for ten years and comes back only to join the Danes in their conquest over the Saxons. 
> 
> Anyway, i don't know what ages their supposed to be in the show, but lets say that in this fic Alfred is 26ish and ivar is 29ish

Alfred only knew war to bring death. He never expected it to bring Ivar back to Wessex after disappearing ten years ago.

 

Though, Alfred supposed that Ivar's name was nearly synonymous with death now. He had heard what had happened in the Gaelic isles, of how a fearsome Viking that in stories was called Ivar-the-Boneless, conquered the lands, killing the native tribes there, and made himself king of their city Dublin and then the rest of the isle.

When Alfred heard this news some years ago, he was not surprised. The message of Dublin's conquest had come three years after Alfred was freed from the Northmen camp where he'd been held prisoner for many months. In those three years Alfred often thought about what had happened to Ivar-though Alfred often tried not to think of such thing-he wondered what hand Ivar played in Alfred's release from the Northmen camp and where Ivar might be now that the Great Heathen Army had left Wessex's shores. Alfred had not expected the answer to be Ireland, but upon hearing it he wasn't so surprised.

The Gaelic tribes were filled with fierce fighters, Alfred thought that they were the sort of warriors that Ivar would have enjoyed fighting against. When he heard of Ivar's victory over them he wasn't surprised either, neither was he surprised when he heard that Ivar was called King there.

What did surprise Alfred was that after ten years of never seeing the man, after ten years of the Ragnarsson's army being absent from Wessex, he would see Ivar waiting for him atop the hill where Alfred had meant to be meeting with the Danes who'd been waging war in Alfred's land for the past year. What surprised Alfred was how completely unprepared he felt to be facing the man again after all these years.

 

"Father!"

 

Alfred looked up from his table sharply upon hearing the voice of his oldest son enter the room. Edward was just a boy of seven, and already he looked so much like Alfred's long dead older brother that sometimes it hurt to look at him.

 

Alfred pushed the letter he'd been reading aside and turned in his chair to look at his son, "What are you doing here? Where is your brother and sister?"

 

Aethelweard, his younger son, was a year younger than Edward and often the two boys were at each other's hip, inseparable. Aethelflaed, Alfred's only daughter, was still just an infant, barely entering her second year and born in the year when the Dane's first attacked Wessex, but Edward often knew where she would be as he was already clearly protective of both his siblings. Alfred was proud of that-proud of how responsible Edward was proving himself to be.

 

Edward skittered into the room, but looked behind himself through the open door of the study, like he was expecting to see someone else following behind him. "Aethelweard had been following me…" his sons voice tapered off, as he shook his head, light brown curls obscuring his eyes, "I can go find him-but father, haven't you heard?"

 

Alfred's brow creased. Edward sounded both excited and fearful, a mood common for boys his age, but Alfred found something uncommon in his son's demeanor, which usually did not take on such boyish tones.

 

"What news are you speaking of?" Alfred asked, already moving away from his desk and the letter that had arrived from Mercia where the Danes had last attacked.

 

"The news of the Vikings," Edward said, moving towards the doorway, and waiting for Alfred to follow, "They're camped outside the gates!"

 

The news was not quite true. Alfred followed Edward out of the study and towards the hall where they found little Aethelweard looking out of a large open window where, across the gates of the town and over on a hill, a small camp could be seen in the distance. It was not the war camp that Alfred had been expecting to see when Edward told him that Vikings were outside their doors, but the camp was still significantly big enough that Alfred should have been informed of the presence by someone other than a seven year old boy.

Alfred grimaced as he joined Aethelweard to look out the window. He set a hand on his youngest son's shoulder and told him and Edward to find their tutor and go back to the studies they were meant to be attending and then Alfred went to look for one of his generals.

Once entering the great hall it was easy to find one. It seemed there was chaos all around Alfred merely had to pick one of the generals to find out what was happening.

 

"Baldwin, care to inform me why my son knew about the Northmen outside our gates before I did?"

 

His general swallowed thickly, old face wrinkled with displeasure. He nodded his head and Alfred called for a council meeting.

 

 

The rest of the day was spent in a meeting until Alfred knew everything he could have about the Northmen who were less than half a days journey from the ground Alfred stood on. It was the Danes, of course, but reports of who was leading the small band of them had been contradictory. Some said that it was the Dane, Guthrum, who had lead the attack on Wessex last spring, while others said it was Halfdan Ragnvaldson, another Danish commander who Alfred had defeated during an attack at Devon some time ago. Others still said that these Northmen were neither lead by either Guthrum nor Halfdan, rather it was Ivar Ragnarsson himself who lead them.

Alfred listened to his generals closely, a pinched expression on his tired face. He felt much older than his twenty-six years ought to entail. Already he was older than his brother, Aethelred had been when he had died, and in another few years Alfred would be older than his adopted father had been when he passed as well. Both had been killed by the same man who may have been making camp outside Alfred's home at this very moment. Alfred contributed the exhaustion to this.

Action had to be taken against this band of Northmen soon, before the northmen decided to take action against them instead. Most of Alfred's generals were in agreement that they ought to attack the Northmen at first light, giving them enough time to prepare their forces and mount a decent assault. Alfred though, decided to rule against this advice. He told himself that it had nothing to do with the Northman who might have been leading the encampment, rather, he said to his generals, their waiting had everything to do with gathering information and making the most informed decision possible. Alfred wasn't going to waste the lives of his soldiers on an attack that was half-planned and possibly unnecessary. If the Northmen had not attacked yet then chances are they wouldn't attack by daybreak either. Instead, Alfred ordered for guards to be posted around the city gates and for caution to be taken with any travelers who might try to enter Wessex in the coming days. The council meeting ended with this coming to agreement.

Alfred escaped to his chambers before he could be cornered by anyone else who might try to convince him to attack the Northmen at daybreak. With the war with the Danes reaching new heights in the past year, changing from the occasional skirmish to a full out war, tensions were high in Wessex and many of Alfred's people were tired of waiting and ready to kill any perceivable threat. While Alfred understood this sentiment, he still thought that the best course of action would be waiting for attack rather than provoking one. Several times he had tried to arrange some sort of peace with the Danes though, and each time it had been spat upon. While Alfred no longer had qualms engaging in battle with the Danes, he still held out hope that war wasn't the only solution to their problems.

As Alfred closed the door to his chambers, he slipped the heavy golden circlet from his brow and held it loosely in his grasp. Even after all these years, it still sat uncomfortably on his head, like it never really did belong there in the first place.

Turning from the door, Alfred moved to set the crown down on a dressing table against the wall, but in the polished reflection of the mirror he caught sight of a silhouette against his bed instead.

 

Alfred's breath caught, startled, "Ealhswith." He said, feeling himself relax as he saw her leaning against the wooden frame of his bed.

 

Alfred had married Eahlswith when he was eighteen, two years after he'd been freed from the Northmen camp. She was the daughter of a Mercian noble, and a leader of the Gaini tribe, who Alfred's father once called barely civilized, but who proved good allies during those first initial attacks by the Danes that came not soon after the Great Heathen army left Alfred's lands.

Ealhswith was not at all different from the other noble women Alfred had encountered in his life, despite her Gaini heritage. Her mother had been a noble Mercian woman, but both she and Alfred had never met her, as she had died when giving birth to Eahlswith, and instead, Eahlswith had been raised by her father's people until she was of age and then she was taken in by her grandparents.

Eahlswith had the same golden brown hair as their sons, but hers fell in long straight lochs that she kept tied back in a braid or covered with a veil. Right now she had one such veils covering her hair and hanging over her shoulders as she watched Alfred come into the room.

 

"You're tired." She said as Alfred began taking off his heavy belt and clothes that he had to keep on at court.

 

Alfred nodded, not looking back at her. "Very," he answered, wondering if she was just as tired and if so, why was she in his room?

 

Their marriage had been very tentative at first, meaning neither of them had particularly wanted it. It had been Alfred's mother who made the suggestion of it when the Dane's first attacked, saying that Alfred was at an age where marriage could be very advantageous. Alfred, though, had no interest in marrying noble ladies, he had no interest in marriage at all. Regretfully, he would say, in those first years of marriage Alfred couldn't have been a very good husband. Not that Eahlswith ever complained.

And as for Eahlswith, she hadn't been pleased with marrying Alfred either. They did not speak to each other about such topics often, but once, a year into the marriage, shortly before Edward was conceived, Eahlswith and he had gotten intoxicated on a bottle of wine left behind after a victory celebration over the Danes.

It was not often that Alfred drank, and he imagined that it was less often that Eahlswith did, but somehow the bottle had come into their possession and both of them, in means of escaping the festivities of the victory celebration had ended up in the seldom used bathhouse that Alfred remembered vaguely from his childhood when his grandfather Ecebert was still king. It was amidst tentative drinks, turned fitful giggles, turned companionable silence that Eahlswith admitted that she had planned on joining a convent in Mercia before she was told she would be marrying Alfred. Alfred had asked if Eahlswith still wished she could have gone there and she told him that yes, she did, but that with enough time she was sure she would stop feeling that way.

Sometimes Alfred thought that Eahlswith still felt that way.

The two of them stopped sharing a room after Edward was born, and they rarely slept together at all after that. Neither of them disliked each other, and it seemed that maybe they'd even grown closer after Edward was first born, but Alfred knew well enough that Eahlswith would never love him in the way wives were supposed to love their husbands. He could not blame her for that at all-Alfred often worried that he could not love Eahlswith in the way a husband was meant to love his wife either, and it always made him think that Eahlswith deserved a much better man than he, or rather she deserved a much better life than the one Alfred could give her. Not that such things were ever spoken out loud. Alfred and Eahlswith could be friends, and unspoken, they both knew that this was enough.

 

"What was decided about the Northmen, then?" Eahlswith spoke tersely, and when Alfred turned he could see the tense look on her face.

 

Alfred finished changing into his night clothes and walked up to lean against the bed beside her, "No attack will come from us in the coming days unless the Northmen gives us reason for one."

 

"Their presence isn't reason enough?" Eahlswith asked, but Alfred knew that her feelings on the subject were more similar to his own than that of his generals.

 

"Not unless they give us reason to think that it is." Alfred sighed, thinking of his bed and how little sleep he would be getting that night. "We do not even know who is leading the camp outside the gate. It could be no one-it could be that those Northmen want farm land to settle on, or they want to join our people, or that they just want to trade goods. Not every Northmen wants war."

 

"I have heard that Ivar-the-Boneless leads them," Eahlswith said crossing her arms, "He wants war. Don't talk to me like I am one of the children, Alfred, I hear more than you think."

 

Alfred shut his eyes and titled his chin against his chest, taking in another breath before looking up, "I'm sorry, Eahlswith, I know that you do. I've just slept so little-"

 

"What do you plan to do?"

 

"Plan?" Alfred sighed again, knowing that Ealhswith wouldn't leave him be until she got what she wanted, "I've told you our plan."

 

"You've told me nothing. You want to wait out Ivar-the-Boneless? Pretend that he's just some traveler looking for a place to farm-"

 

"My generals don't even know if its him. We don't know anything yet, that's why we're waiting."

 

"And if it is him?" Eahlswith asked, eyebrows raised, "How long do you think he's going to wait?"

 

Alfred pressed his lips together and turned away from his wife. He walked over to the side of his bed and at the bible waiting at the table beside it wondering if he had enough energy for prayer or if sleep would serve him better than council with god would.

Alfred certainly felt like he needed more council, and perhaps that was because he knew that Eahlswith was right. Eahlswith's former desire to join a convent was not the only secret shared that drunken night in the bathhouse years ago. Alfred had shared secrets of his own that he dared not share with anybody before her, many of which had to do with his time in the Northmen camp. Eahlswith knew more about Alfred than he sometimes would have liked, she knew more about Ivar than Alfred was certain the other man would have liked either.

 

"What would you have me do?" Alfred said, voice heavy with resignation to this conversation and the exhaustion the day gave him. He kept his back to her, still staring contemplatively at his Bible. "Do you think an attack at daybreak on an enemy we are half ignorant about is the best strategy? Do you think we should surround them in the night and set fire to their camp before they have a chance to arm a defense? Do you think the risk of provoking the Danes further is worth the innocent lives we might kill in the process?" Alfred's voice felt ragged with all the possibilities and the weight deciding them would push on his shoulders. He knew he must have sounded angry, but the heavy press of his words had more to do with the frustration Alfred felt at the circumstances of his kingdom than anything Eahlswith might have pointed out. "Eahlswith, if you think you have answers to these questions, please tell me, because I'm happy to be enlightened on which impossible scenario to decide upon? Which manner of execution would be best for these strangers?"

 

Eahlswith was very quiet and Alfred always thought that she was very quiet, even before he had gotten to know her. Knowing the nature of the Gaini tribesmen Alfred did not think that this was something she could have been raised to be-quiet. Sometimes Alfred wondered what those few years she spent in her grandparent's court in Mercia did to change the girl raised by what Alfred had been raised to think of as savages, into the quiet woman before him.

 

"I think you should invite them to court." Eahlswith sound finally, after a long pause of silence that suitably made Alfred ashamed of his angry outburst. Her voice spoke so levelly and calm that Alfred didn't think that they could possibly be still speaking on the same subject.

 

He lifted his head up and turned to her, "Invite the Northmen into our court?" Alfred repeated the words, words titled in disbelief, "The Northmen who may very well want us dead."

 

Eahlswith shrugged her shoulder moving over to sit at the edge of Alfred's bed, "Or perhaps be farmers, or traders, or who knows? Maybe they'd like to join our people." Alfred's face heated as she repeated the same patronizing rhetoric he'd given to her minutes before. Eahlswith went on, "We can't very well assume they're enemies. Or perhaps, we can't very well treat them like they are enemies."

 

Alfred's brow furrowed, "What do you mean? You can't honestly be suggesting that we invite the Northmen into the home of our family?"

 

Eahlswith's lips dipped at that. He did not think she considered Wessex her home yet, even after nearly eight years living in these halls. She did not give signs to thinking this way often, but when she did Alfred felt the deep desire to put an arm around her and ask what he could possibly do to change that feeling. At the moment though, Alfred was firmly focused on what solution Eahlswith was offering that neither Alfred nor his many generals had considered.

 

"When the Gaini attacked Mercia many years ago, during the reign of my mother's grandfather, King Coenwulf, he invited the Gaini chief to sup with him in his halls. Coenwulf gave the best chambers to the Gaini chief, gave him the best cuts of food, the best furs to dress in, and the best servants in his hall to give to the chief to do with what he wanted." Alfred's cheeks flushed as his wife recited this, brushing over the words like she had not just suggested that a renowned holy Christian king of Mercia offered his servants up as prostitutes for a heathen cheiften. Alfred thought that this must have been a story told to Eahlswith during a time before she'd been sent to live with her grandparents. Eahlswith continued, "When the Gaini chief had spent seven nights under King Coenwulf's roof, supping in his halls, sleeping in his beds, wearing his clothes, Coenwulf told the chief that there was no reason that the other should think of each other as enemies. Rather, Coenwulf told him that they should be friends-family even, and Coenwulf told the chief that if peace could remain between these two people until his youngest granddaughter came of age then Coenwulf would marry this granddaughter to a son in the chief's clan, and that there two people could then truly become family."

 

Alfred took in the story thinking that it was a very nice sentiment, one that he was sure Eahlswith must have told as a bedtime story to their children at some point, but not entirely relevant to Alfred's current situation.

 

"I understand what you mean," Alfred ventured carefully, "But I'm not certain that this strategy is entirely realistic."

 

Eahlswith turned her head and glared at him, "Alfred, that is the story of my mother and father's marriage. There was peace between the Gaini and the kingdom of Mercia ever since King Coenwulf's rule, because of this strategy."

 

Alfred cringed, knowing he insulted his wife and knowing she had a point, while also knowing he did not agree with her still. The Northmen were nothing like the Gaini, who at least had prior claim to the land they fought for, the Northmen were invaders, and ones who rarely wanted peace if it meant they had to conform to the Christian way of life.

 

"So you are suggesting that I invite a Northmen into our hall and what? Tell him if he and however many people he has outside our gates on that hill don't attack us I'll give him Aethelflaed's hand in marriage?"

 

The mere thought of that turned Alfred's stomach. He did not want to think of arranging a marriage for the hand of his two-year-old daughter to anyone, even if it would be years before such a marriage could take place.

 

Eahlswith's glare intensified, as if she was thinking the very same thing. "Of course that is not what I am suggesting. Don't be dense, Alfred, and don't pretend that it is just some Northmen outside our gates."

 

"We don't know for certain who is leading them." Alfred repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. The repetition of this phrase did not change Alfred's own mind of who it must be, and it didn't change Eahlswith's either.

 

"Invite him to our halls." Eahlswith said with a brave sort of certainty, and then dropping all pretenses continued, "Treat Ivar-the-Boneless like a friend. Show him that we are a better ally than the Danes. Convince him that it is our cause to fight for, and that there is more to gain from friendship than war."

 

Alfred could only shake his head. He knew all too well what friendship with Ivar-the-Boneless felt like, he knew how very impossible it was to obtain. But he also knew that Eahlswith's words rang true. If he could have Ivar's faction of the Northmen on his side against the Danes, victory would be in their grasps and Alfred's children could see something other than bloodshed in their lifetime. Edward could grow up, become a king that lived well into old age, could have the sort of life Alfred's brother was meant to have.

 

"Ivar cares not for peace, Eahlswith. He enjoys war-he likes killing."

 

"Then show him that there is a better way." Eahlswith urged, reaching over to grab one of Alfred's cold hands in hers. She squeezed his palm once before pulling away and walking towards the door, "Or at least show him that a war with the Danes would be more enjoyable than a war against us."

 

Alfred looked up at her before she could leave the room, his eyes searching for her steady warm brown ones that were such a safe harbor to lay in. Alfred felt as if he needed their comfort now, "You won't spend the night in here then?"

 

Eahlswith pressed her pale lips together and shook her head, "I'm going to the chapel to pray. I'll ask the lord to grant you clarity of mind," she paused, "and peace."

 

Alfred nodded. That was probably for the best. Asking her to stay had been selfish-Eahlswith had more than done her wifely duty towards him already with their three children. Beyond that sex was only a burden to her and for Alfred, a way to forget. Anytime they lay together it seemed destructive to them both-a poison more than a remedy.

 

"Thank you," Alfred told her hollowly and she nodded, slipping out of the room.

 

Alfred moved to his bed, laying down and shutting his eyes tightly listening to her footsteps fade into the quiet until he was left alone.

Alfred found neither clarity nor peace that night, only a plan and a name. One that made him feel like a boy again, still new to the burdens of king, half desperate to join his father and brother in the afterlife, half desperate to be a better ruler than them both. Alfred felt the name on his lips- could taste it like a passing grave, like the threat of death, like unwanted desire. Like so many things that Alfred was meant to forget long ago, and yet never quite could.

Ivar Ragnarsson was no friend, he was no ally, he was no hope of salvation for Wessex or against the Danes. Even so, Alfred already knew that his choice had been made, and in this matter at least, free will had vanished. Alfred would invite Ivar into the halls. He would make peace with the man who had long ago promised to grant Alfred death.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! So i didn't plan to write a part 3, but i was bored and so here we are.  
> A few notes: Ealhswith was Alfred's historical wife and she really was the daughter of a Gaini cheif and a Mercian noble women, I couldn't figure out much about how that happened so I used her possible relative of King Coenwulf of mercia and made up a thematic backstory. I already like Eahlswith, there will be no Eahlswith bashing in this fic. That being said, her and Alfred's relationship will not be a romantic one or really a physical one. Theyre just friends.  
> Also Alfred technically had like 5 kids with her, but i'm sticking to just 3. Also technically the daughter is supposed to be the oldest, but i screwed up and made her the youngest and was too lazy to change it. I'm trying to keep things somewhat historic but given that this is fan fiction and I really should have killed Ivar off at the end of the last part of this fic its clearly not going to be too historically accurate. 
> 
> Next chapter Ivar will actually be featured, we just had to build up the background a little.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos. This isn't a super popular ship, so i'm super interested in hearing what those who are into it want in a story or in the ivar/alfred dynamic. I'm totally into fan service as long as it works within the story, so whatever you guys want to read I want to write.


	2. Chapter 2

The messenger came back without his head.

Alfred pressed his lips contemplatively as he watched the headless horsemen came galloping into the courtyard, body lulled in the saddle, only held up by a rope tied around his waist to the neck of the panicked horse he rode.

Several attendants rushed towards the headless messenger, attempting to free the corpse from the mount and hide him from the view of the scandalized subjects who were gathering around.

Beside Alfred, Eahlswith looked troubled. She was holding their daughter Aethelflaed in her arms, with the child's face pressed against her chest, so that she would not see the headless corpse or the blood dripping from his severed neck onto the dusty ground of the yard. Eahlswith called for a servant and had their daughter taken away, telling them to keep the rest of the children inside for the remainder of the day.

 

 

"Tell me about this Ivar-the-Boneless." Eahlswith said sometime later when it was just the two of them and the chaos of the day had been settled.

 

Alfred would not be sending another messenger to the Northmen camp, not until he knew that this time the messenger would return with his life intact.

Eahlswith stood beside the window of Alfred's room, overlooking the town that lay beyond the castle's gates. The same troubled expression that had been on her face when the headless messenger had arrived had not gone away, and now she looked forward into the night like she thought she could find the red light of the fires set in the Northman camp on the outskirts of the town.

Alfred was pulling off his boots, perched on the edge of his bed. Eahlswith's question was not unexpected, and Alfred fought the urge to remind her that they didn't even know if Ivar was in the Northmen camp outside their town.

 

"I've told you of him before," Alfred told her. He'd bargain that Eahlswith knew more about Alfred's time in the Northmen camp than anyone else in his court. Though, even the details he told her were sparing.

 

Much of it Alfred would prefer to forget. There had been the first few days in the camp, those days after Alfred had traded his life for his mother's, where Alfred had spent all hours of the day, tied up, unable to sleep, and desperate for drink of some kind. Those early days Alfred had merely been waiting for death, at first wondering how it might happen and if his tainted soul was decent enough to grant him heaven, and then as time went on Alfred merely hoped that death would come soon to release him from the unending exhaustion and pain and fear of not knowing.

Then Ivar had entered the tent Alfred had been held in and everything changed.

Not the waiting for death. In all his time in the Northmen camp, Alfred never for a moment thought he would truly leave the place alive. Everything else changed though-Alfred no longer slept, tied up in the prisoner's tent, he no longer spent every waking hour desperate for drink or wondering when someone would come to kill him. Other things changed too, Alfred's mind always drifted to Ivar in times like these, but the changes there were best forgotten, or at least tucked away in the far recesses of Alfred's mind where they would not cause conflict in his chest.

 

Eahlswith turned from the window and raised an eyebrow at Alfred, "Yes, you've told me some things, but not everything. Not the important things."

 

Even ten years after the fact, Alfred still felt his defenses rise when Eahlswith said this. Alfred didn't want to share what he thought were the important things-things like the first moment Ivar was kind to Alfred, like the night he took him to the river when Alfred was certain he wasn't supposed to, or the hours in the night when Alfred and Ivar would talk to each other about strategy and war and the worth of a life like those were all abstract concepts that neither truly understood yet. Or important things like when Alfred traced the lines of Ivar's tattooed chest, and when Ivar pressed his lips against Alfred's and those few moments where Alfred thought that he didn't want to push the other boy away at all. Those all felt like very important things, and as Eahlswith stared at Alfred expectantly, Alfred didn't think he wanted to share those things at all.

 

Alfred cleared his throat and looked across the room at the cross hanging on the wall. Ten years later and the thought of some stolen kiss was still making heat rise to Alfred's face. "I don't know what you would consider important."

 

Eahlswith was looking at Alfred like she knew he was lying to her. She was a good enough woman as to not push it. "Then tell me what sort of man he is-you say he likes war, but what else? We want him to be our ally, to join us against the Danes, how do we do that?"

 

The flush on Alfred's cheeks still had not gone away. What sort of man was Ivar? How many times had Alfred presumed to know what kind of man Ivar was during his months held captive.

_"Why should I stop?" Ivar had asked Alfred, eyes burning with uncaged intensity, his lips red from kissing Alfred's, his arms still holding Alfred still like he thought the other boy might run at the first given chance. Alfred should run-if he was smarter he would have ran._

_Alfred took in a sharp breath, feeling Ivar's fingers dig into his shoulder and a sharp pain jolt him to his senses. Alfred's soul was in conflict, being pulled at the seams by the man who had murdered his family and by the boy Alfred had begun to call friend. "This isn't the sort of man you are."_

 

"Alfred?" Eahlswith repeated, already stepping closer to him, a hand outstretched and a concerned expression on her face.

 

Alfred held up a hand stopping her and shook his head. He couldn't bear to be touched right now, he could hardly bear the company of anyone at all. "I'm fine. Headache, is all."

 

Eahlswith set her lips in a firm line, but stepped back, going back over to the window, but looked at Alfred instead of the village now.

With her eyes on him, Alfred knew he had to say something or else only make her more concerned, or worse, suspicious. Alfred had learned to care for Eahlswith in his own way, but even after their years of marriage, he did not kid himself into thinking she ever completely learned to trust him. Alfred thought of his own bastardy, his own inborn sin, and thought that he could never truly blame her for this.

 

"Ivar likes war." Alfred said quickly, thinking through his next words carefully and focusing on what mattered to Wessex and not what mattered just to Alfred. "He likes power, his likes winning."

 

This frustrated Eahlswith, and Alfred relaxed knowing that her unhinging focus was directed at something other than him, "He's king of Dublin, isn't he? Isn't that power and victory enough? Why is he here?"

 

This answer was easy, "Because he never really won the war here. Our people came to a truce. His settled in the land on the outskirts of Mercia and the rest returned home with the promise that they wouldn't return here again."

 

"They've returned now." Eahlswith pointed out.

 

"Yes, well, I don't think anyone believed they would keep their end of the bargain for long." Alfred crossed his arms and leaned against the frame of his bed, "His people were tired of fighting, there was dissension in their camp. It became clear to everyone that a war either had to be fought or certain things had to be relinquished."

 

"Like you." Eahlswith said and Alfred gave a tense nod.

 

"Yes, they gave me back to Wessex and I promised not to seek revenge for either my or my mother's capture."

 

Eahlswith went back to looking out the window and for a while she was quiet and Alfred knew she was thinking. "We could give him more land if he fought for us," Eahlswith said after some time had passed, "A title with it. We could give him Lochlann and control of the Irish sea, given our ships could still have safe passage."

 

Alfred had thought the same when first considering what he could offer Ivar. He'd rejected such ideas though when thinking that Ivar would never want to be handed something when the option to take it by force was possible. Ivar was not a king who had been forged in diplomacy or peace, but one in blood and war.

 

"Perhaps," Alfred conceded as to not have to argue his point. He'd rather not spend the rest of the evening trying to convince Eahlswith that Ivar was very much the monster people made him out to be, especially when Alfred didn't really believe he was that to begin with. "Though, first we'll have to find some way to communicate with the Northmen camped outside the gates, one that does not include more of my subjects being murdered."

 

"I've been thinking about that as well." Eahlswith said with some bit of reservation, she turned to look at Alfred and leaned delicately against the stone and glass of the window. Her expression was not a hopeful one, but a careful one. "Perhaps sending a servant insulted Ivar. You've said he is very proud, perhaps having you send a common messenger to speak to him on your behalf after all these years was seen as disrespectful."

 

Alfred snorted in a way reserved for times when the eyes of the court were not on him and he needn't be the same sort of king he was outside the privacy of his chambers. It had taken Alfred a long time to feel comfortable enough around Eahlswith to put his guard down in such a way, and at times he still felt uncomfortable doing it. In moments like these though, he was usually too tired to care.

 

"Oh, I'm sure he has decided to take everything I do as a sign of disrespect." Alfred turned towards a water basin, wanting to scrub the day's dirt from his face. Cupping the water in his hands and splashing it against his face, Alfred thought of the meeting he had with Danes months ago and that first time he had seen Ivar after ten long years. That interaction had felt carefree, boyish, hopeful. Alfred had forgotten that he was meant to be a king in those moments, he'd forgotten about all the cruel insults traded between him and Ivar those days leading up to Alfred being freed by the prison camp, and he forgot about the long vanishing anger Alfred felt over the death of his brother and father and all Alfred felt was that he was reuniting with someone he long thought lost. Alfred stood up straighter, wiping his face with a rag, "I'd have offered to go myself to deliver the message, but I think half the court would be in an uproar about that if they knew I thought I was going to meet Ivar."

 

Eahlswith nodded as if she had thought the same. "I didn't mean that I think you should go." She said tentatively.

 

Alfred glanced at her, curiously, "Well, you don't mean Bishop Haemund then? He's much too old for fighting now, and I assure you that if he and Ivar met it would only result in a death." Alfred cared little for the Bishop in truth, but his mother had wanted him to stay in Alfred's court and Alfred had little power in disobeying his mother. "Besides, I don't think the court could take seeing a headless bishop ride up to the gates, not after today."

 

He had meant it as a joke, but Eahlswith would not laugh, "No, I don't mean the bishop either, or anyone else you might suggest. I mean that I think I should go to meet with the Northmen."

 

Alfred stood frozen, "Absolutely not."

 

"Alfred." Eahlswith breathed.

 

"No." Alfred did not make it a habit of refusing his wife much, not when she asked for so little, but this Alfred could not agree to. If Ivar was ready to kill someone who was merely a servant in Alfred's court, how much more willing would he be to kill Alfred's wife? "I can't believe you would even suggest that? You are the mother of my children, the queen of Wessex, to think I would put you in that sort of danger-"

 

Eahlswith walked up to Alfred and grabbed his hands in hers, stopping his tirade. She had a firm expression on her dainty features, "It was merely a suggestion, and not one meant to insult you. I didn't make it in regards to you at all. I hardly have any interest in riding up to some Northman camp or meeting with the man who once held you prisoner. I'd be going so that we can have some sort of hope for peace in our country during our lifetime."

 

"Why would I put you in a situation where you would be killed?" Alfred knew he could be fiercely stubborn when he needed to be, and this felt like one of those moments. He may not be in love with Eahlswith, but in their eight years of marriage and Alfred's eleven years of being king she was the closest thing to a friend he had found at court, and there were very few things he would not do to protect her.

 

"Because I would not be killed." Eahlswith dropped his hands and stepped away, clearly upset with him. "We both know that Ivar-or whoever these Northmen outside our gates are, don't want war. If they did they would have attacked us and not just sent back our messenger dead. They won't kill me, just like the wouldn't kill you if you were to go to them. Such offenses aren't as easily overlooked as a dead servant is, and unless these Northmen are dumber than you've lead on then they wouldn't kill me."

 

"They could take you captive." Alfred felt worry that he hadn't experienced in some years. It was the same sort of worry Alfred felt when he heard his mother had been taken by Ivar's army ten years ago. Alfred thought of his children, motherless, and of himself without his one friend, and he thought that if he needed to trade his life again he would.

 

"They won't." Eahlswith spoke with determination now, already sensing the victory won. Alfred knew she was right, though he also knew that he could send several other people to perform the same task successfully. Still, Alfred knew that no one else was going to willingly volunteer to deliver the Northmen a message after the servant was killed today.

 

Alfred felt infinitely more unhappy than he had that morning, a feat he previously thought impossible. "I do not like this idea at all. I do not like the idea of sending my wife to the mouths of lions."

 

Eahlswith's shoulders relaxed and she moved to set her hand on Alfred's cheek, though the touch was not something familiar or comfortable between them. Her hand on his cheek very much felt like the word wife felt on his lips, like a lie or a mask or some sort of role in a play he'd been given while never receiving the lines. It was unfamiliar and foreign and they both did not trust either sentiment.

 

"And I don't like the idea of spending another day wondering if my children will spend their youth surrounded by war." She pulled her hand away and they were both more comfortable for it. She held her hand to her chest and stepped away, "You said that Ivar-the-Boneless is clever, didn't you? You said that he knows your strategies better than anyone else?"

 

Alfred's face heated up as if Eahlswith had just revealed some sort of intimate secret out loud. He nodded his head, telling himself that he was foolish to feel that way.

 

"Then he will expect you to send someone like the bishop, or one of your generals." Eahlswith told him, "He will not expect you to send me."

 

"And you think this unexpectancy will serve us as some sort of advantage?" Alfred still was not comfortable using Eahlswith like she was a pawn in strategy, even if it did benefit them.

 

"I do." Eahlswith told him, "especially if everything else you told me about him is true."

 

Alfred wished he could remember what everything Alfred had told Eahlswith about Ivar was. Most of those nights that any secrets between them were shared were often spent while deep in their cups, too drunk to remember the morning and too young, foolish, and desperate for intimacy to think better of it.

 

"Very well," Alfred hated himself for saying the words. If he could only have a little more time he could have thought of a better option, but there wasn't any time. The Danes would be coming back to Wessex now that winter was over and without some sort of new help Alfred couldn't imagine that another war against them was going to differ any more than it had in past years. "I will speak to the council about it in the morrow, we'll see what they have to say."

 

It didn't matter what the council had to say and both Alfred and Eahlswith knew it. Half the council didn't care for Eahlswith anyway with her Gaini blood and they were eager for an opportunity for Alfred to remarry to come up, and the other half were too cowardice to volunteer to take her place as the messenger to the Northman.

Alfred still was unhappy with the decision and made it known until the moment Eahlswith took up mount on her horse and along with her guards, took from the gate. Alfred watched as she left feeling a deep pit of anxiety and uselessness fill his stomach, knowing that it ought to be him going to meet with the Northmen and not her.

Alfred occupied his time waiting for Eahlswith's return in his council meetings, and then when those felt as if they used up their worth he went to his children's chambers and interrupted their lessons in order to spend the afternoon with them. It was not often that he was able to do this, usually, Alfred was far too busy being king, which had recently entailed preparing for the war against the Danes. Today though, Alfred felt that he was too worried about Eahlswith to be of any use in planning strategy.

He did not think that Ivar was the sort of man who would have killed a wife and mother when doing so was meaningless. That was at least, as long as Ivar had not found any meaning in killing such a woman, because if he did Alfred did not think anyone was safe. In truth, in those months Alfred spent in Ivar's camp, he had never seen the other boy kill anyone. While Alfred had been captive a time of peace had settled between the Saxon and Northmen armies and other than the few skirmishes Alfred had not been privy to, there had not been an opportunity for Ivar to outright kill. The closest moment to seeing Ivar's true murderous potential during those months had been when Ivar had beat his brother on the banks of the river nearly to death. Thinking of this only made Alfred feel unease and he turned back to his children in hopes that he had not just willingly signed on to a plan that left them motherless. Alfred would never forgive himself if he had. He would never forgive himself for offering Ivar another opportunity to kill something Alfred cared about-he could never forgive Ivar for killing something that had meaning to Alfred after those months they spent together, and it would have shattered any sort of good memory Alfred still clung to in regards to the months of his captivity.

 

It was not until the sun had set that a call went out that Eahlswith was returning to the city. Alfred, along with Edward, went to the gates of the castle to wait for her. When Alfred saw Eahlswith riding up though, he soon regretted agreeing to take Edward out to greet her.

Eahlswith was untouched in any visible way, but Alfred could see the troubled look on her face that expressed fear and emotions that accompanied a shaken woman. When she saw Edward, she tried to cover this look, but she did not do so well and that only served to make Alfred more worried. Eahlswith was, if not nothing else, an expert at hiding her emotions. The fact that she was failing to do so now told Alfred everything he needed to know.

She answered no questions posed to her by the generals who had come out to greet her, repeating that she was too tired to speak of it at the moment and wanted to be with her son. Eahlswith's tone remained tightly controlled, much like the taut string of a bow that was close to breaking. Alfred tried to catch her gaze, hoping that she, at least with him, would seek some sort of comfort, but when she looked into his eyes she only shook her head. Not here, the gesture read, Not now.

Alfred stayed by Eahlswith's side, dismissing their servants as he followed her to Edward's room where she put him to sleep. He waited outside the bedroom door hearing her comfort their child, something she often left for one of their servants to do on late nights such as these.

Alfred paced back and forth thinking of what might have happened at the Northmen camp that had left Eahlswith so shaken. Alfred's hands started to clench into fists and he already began hating himself for ever feeling some sort of nostalgic excitement when he saw Ivar on the hill at the meeting with the Danes months ago. Alfred had let himself forget all the awful things Ivar was capable of and only remembered the good-now Eahlswith was suffering for it and Alfred was the monster to let it happen.

The door to Edward's bedroom opened and Eahlswith stepped out, closing it and then nearly running into Alfred's chest as he came up to her.

 

"Are you hurt?" Alfred asked suddenly, thinking that while Eahlswith did not show sign on injury when she rode up to them there might have been some sort of harm hidden under her clothes, which while did not seem more disturbed than a long ride might have made them, could have been covered up or fixed to hide such injury.

 

Eahlswith shook her head and stepped around Alfred and he followed her to the chambers she took to sleep in. "No, I'm not harmed." She said lowly under her breath, eyes glancing over at him with some sort of annoyance.

 

Alfred pressed his lips together, "Did he say something to you then? It was him, wasn't it? Ivar-he was the leader of the encampment. He didn't threaten you, did he?"

 

They were now in Eahlswith's chambers and as soon as Alfred followed her into the room, she turned around and closed the door shut, setting her back against the wood. She still stood stiffly.

 

"Of course, he threatened me." She hissed, but was no longer whispering as she had in the hall where she was afraid they'd be overheard. Eahlswith ran a hand through her hair, pushing back the long strands that had come undone on her ride. "He's worse than you said. Cocky, arrogant, cruel." The last word hung between them and Eahlswith turned her head so that she would not look at Alfred. "I do not like him at all. I trust him even less."

 

Alfred hated that he had ever admitted to being friends with Ivar to Eahlswith. He felt a deep sense of shame that she knew that he had once cared for Ivar. But the Ivar who Alfred met all those years ago would have been very different from the Ivar who had conquered the Gaelic isles and who now waged war on Alfred's homeland for a second time. Even so, it was not as if Alfred was under any illusion that Ivar had been a saint those ten years ago. Alfred still worried that Ivar would be much worse now, and that thin trust shared between Eahlswith and Alfred might be shattered because of how low she now thought of him after having met the man who often occupied Alfred's rare drunken thoughts.

 

"There is no chance of peace then," Alfred stepped back, giving Eahlswith all the space she needed and tilting his head at the stone floor, "It does not matter. You must know how brave you were to have ventured to meet with him though-"

 

Eahlswith shook her head, "No, Alfred. Just give me a moment to speak." She lifted her hands to her face and rubbed the creased of her eyes as the fell shut. She took in a breath, "I've never met a man like him. I thought I'd have been prepared for it better. I thought he would be like the Gaini men I grew up with, full of hot air and with the temperament of a child. He isn't like any man I've ever met, though. There's something dark in him Alfred, you were right when you said he enjoys killing, he enjoys striking fear."

 

Alfred slowly moved closer to Eahlswith's side. Even when they were both drunk Eahlswith rarely was so open in her speech. Ivar truly must have startled her, and thinking back to the time Alfred had seen Ivar some months ago, he wondered why that was.

 

"What did he say to you?" Alfred asked quietly, hoping his voice was gentle without coming across as patronizing in the way that always made Eahlswith angry with him. She so often took the mask of a proper Christian women that Alfred forgot that she had been raised among the Gaini tribes for much of her youth.

 

Eahlswith took in a shaky breath, "Many things. I do not think he knew who I was at first. They did not announce my title, only my name."

 

"I'm sorry that the burden of our marriage has made you suffer again." Alfred rested beside her, back against the wall, and shut his eyes trying to keep out the dark circling thoughts of guilt. It should have been him who went to the camp-Eahlswith should not have suffered because of Alfred's past or Ivar's anger.

 

"No, Alfred." Eahlswith had looked up, setting a hand on Alfred's shoulder so that he would look at her again, "You misunderstand. He said all the cruel things before they announced who I was. It was after that such things stopped."

 

"Stopped?" Alfred looked at her, certain he misunderstood.

 

Eahlswith nodded, "Really, when I told him I was your wife he made the others in the camp quiet down. I don't know how to explain it, don't misunderstand, he was still awful, he still threatened me, but they were all very different sorts of threats, the sort of threats he might have given any other man you would have sent."

 

That still did not sound pleasant to Alfred, but he was starting to get Eahlswith's meaning. "What else did he say?"

 

Eahlswith looked away again, "I don't want to revisit it all. None of it was pleasant, better when they knew who I was, but still not something that will let me sleep easy. He did agree to come here, though. Rather easily actually, I'd almost say he was expecting an invitation by the way he reacted."

 

"Oh." Alfred let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. Some part of him must have really thought that Ivar was going to turn the offer down, or at the very least that it would not have been Ivar in that camp. The reality that Ivar would be coming into Alfred's halls, that Alfred was meant to try and forge peace between them after they had parted so disastrously before, seemed impossible.

 

"Yes, _oh_." Eahlswith moved away from the door and started tying back her hair, glaring at the floor, "I have to say Alfred, I regret making the suggestion to you at all. I don't want that man or his kind around my children." Our children, Alfred thought hollowly, but he could already see that Eahlswith was of some sort of mind that Alfred was more sympathetic to the Northman than she was despite it being her idea that they invite them into Wessex. "I want to make arrangements for Edward, Aethelweard and Aethelflaed to be taken south to your cousins there."

 

Alfred saw the logic in the decision but also its fallacies, "The roads aren't safe for traveling now. The Danes will be coming back from Mercia soon, if Ivar's people are already here then the Danes will be swarming the high traveled roads."

 

This was said with some discontent. Alfred wanted nothing more than for his children to be safe and away from harm, but risking their safety by moving them from Wessex and onto roads that had been known for being places the Danes ambushed was not the least bit worth it.

 

Eahlswith glared at Alfred as if the condition of the roads was his own fault, and in a way, as king, it was his fault. "Fine, but I do not want them to even come near those men. The children stay in their rooms and we finish this business with the Northmen as soon as possible."

 

Alfred already knew that Edward and Aethelweard would be impossible to reign in once they heard that Vikings were in their halls. He imagined what sort of fight Aethelweard, who was especially interested in the Danes would make when he heard he was bound to his room during the duration of the northmen's stay. Alfred also knew that Eahlswith would lay all such blame of the children's rioting on him.

 

"Fine." Alfred repeated somewhat harshly, "Need I remind you though that you are the one who wanted the Northmen to come to our home in the first place."

 

Reminding her was a mistake. " _Yes_ Alfred, I do _remember_ that. Of course, I only brought up that suggestion because you had me convinced that these Northmen weren't as bad as what everyone said."

 

Alfred rarely fought with Eahlswith, he couldn't even remember the last time they had fought. Eahlswith was usually so even tempered, so eager to not cause a fuss that she usually avoided fights rather than pursue them. Alfred only knew they fought now because the children's safety was involved. That was the only time Eahlswith appeared more Gaini than Saxon. With this in mind, Alfred knew he should concede, but his own anxiety that had been mounting up over the day was turning into frustration and defensiveness.

 

"I never said that." Alfred told her, "I always insisted that Ivar was dangerous."

 

Eahlswith practically rolled her eyes, "When you were sober you said he was dangerous. When you were in your cups you said things very differently." Alfred flushed crimson, he had no defense there. Eahlswith shook her head and walked past Alfred, her mood was significantly subdued after saying something she knew humiliated Alfred, and that might have been in part due to her own guilt. "It doesn't matter. What's done is done. If this gives us an ally against the Danes than it will be worth it. Get some sleep Alfred, the Northmen will be at our gates in the morrow. I'm going to the chapel to pray."

 

Alfred nodded his head and walked with Eahlswith down the hall until they diverged when she turned to the chapel and Alfred was left alone. Walking, Alfred couldn't help but wonder if he had just opened his gates to hell.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so no Ivar in this one either. Next one will definitly have him tho
> 
> please leave comments about what you think! thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few parts of the conversation had in this chapter might make a little more sense if you read pt 2 of the series, but i tried to fill in enough details for it to work if you haven't. And a small explanation, in my fic Alfred lost hearing in his left ear as a child. Have fun reading!

A call went out that the Northmen were approaching the castle gates around midday.

Alfred had been waiting for that call since Eahlswith told him Ivar had accepted the invitation in his hall the night before. He had barely been able to focus in his council meetings, often loosing track of what was being discussed or what matters were of most importance and Alfred hated that. He loved the part of leadership where he actually was able to make decisions that might influence some sort of good, that held value outside war and killing, and he hated that it was because of news that Ivar would be arriving in his halls that Alfred was unable to do the one part of Alfred's job that he enjoyed properly.

When the call came that the Northmen were nearly at the gate, it had been a relief. Alfred shut his eyes and let out a breath he had been holding in, listening to the voices echo through the castle as people scurried to prepare for their guests.

Alfred had assured his servants that there was nothing to fear from the Northmen, but he knew that he could never be completely confident in that assertion. At the very least Alfred would not do what Eahlswith's grandfather had done and offer up his servants as whores for the Northmen, though that must have been little comfort to the people who must have had family members raped and killed in the war with the great heathen army that had occurred not long ago.

Alfred tried to let his own confidence in the Northmen show, in hopes that this would at least ease some of the servant's anxieties. He knew that it wasn't enough, but without more time to prepare it was all Alfred could do. He still respected Eahlswith wishes and kept the children to their room while Alfred and her went to the gate to greet their guests.

Eahlswith was still shaken from the day before but she had been ready to join Alfred's side at the gate without giving anyone opportunity to question if that was best for her. She still barely looked at Alfred though, showing the remnants of their fight last night, even if neither of them was willing to address it in the light of day.

The gates were pulled open and Alfred felt himself suck in a breath as he waited for the inevitable. Beside him, Eahlswith stiffened, her eyes trained on the man Alfred was searching for.

This was not the first time Alfred had seen Ivar since Alfred had left the Northmen camp ten years ago. That moment was still reserved for Alfred's foolishness on the hill with the Danes months ago. This felt different though, and perhaps that was because Alfred had been waiting for days to see Ivar now, anticipating and thinking about the moment constantly. Such time allowed him to analyze every moment of their past and let it inform any feeling Alfred might have in the future. It gave Alfred less time to feel and more time to think. Thinking, unfortunately, made things much more difficult.

Of course, when Alfred saw Ivar it was hard to think of anything at all.

Even though Alfred had seen him not that long ago, Alfred was still struck by how much Ivar had changed since they were both boys in the Heathen camp.

Upon his chariot, Ivar rode into the courtyard, followed by three Northmen behind him. Ivar did not look so much aged, as he did more hardened. His eyes, which always seemed too blue were now weighed down by a heavy brow. His black hair was longer, tied back in some northern fashion that men of his age seemed to favor, and while on some it might have looked strange to the Saxons, on Ivar it very much looked like a weapon of intimidation. Blue tinted runic tattoos weaved up the exposed skin on Ivar's neck and reminded Alfred of the night in the tent where Alfred had studied similar tattoos on Ivar's chest, and Alfred looked away before his thoughts could dwell further.

The chariot stopped and Ivar moved to get off of it. Alfred, for the first time noticed that Ivar moved without the crutch that he had been so dependent on before. Braces made from metal and thick corded rope bound Ivar's legs, reminding Alfred of the braces Ivar wore before, which hadn't been nearly as complex or sturdy as the ones he had now. While Ivar walked stiffly, half dragging one leg every time he stepped forward, he by all accounts could walk on his own.

The other three Northmen, two men and one woman, got down from their horses, bitterly allowing Alfred's attendants to take their reigns, and joined Ivar who had come to stand before Alfred.

They were waiting for Alfred to speak, but words had dried up on Alfred's tongue. The female Viking jabbed her elbow against one of the males and they snickered. The third northman, who stood closest to Ivar's side, spoke lowly into Ivar's ear, a grin on his lips. Ivar though, had a steady gaze trained on Alfred, blue eyes unwaveringly patient and completely unreadable.

Everything felt very different that it had been before, and Alfred wished he had not spent so many nights thinking of this moment, thinking of what he was supposed to say because while Alfred had grown into some confidence in his place in Wessex and as king, it felt impossible not to feel so very young again when Ivar looked at him like that.

A hand took Alfred's, and Alfred glanced to see Eahlswith still staring forward, an emotionless look on her face as she held Alfred's hand in her own, like she was a tether to who Alfred was supposed to be. Taking a steadying breath, and holding Eahlswith's hand tighter, Alfred looked back at the Northmen, and at Ivar whose gaze had now darkened.

Alfred cleared his throat to speak, feeling himself to be a king again.

 

 

 

Despite having Ivar staying in Alfred's halls, Alfred did not get a moment to truly speak to Ivar until the day after the Northmen had arrived.

The night of their arrival, Alfred had held a feast for their guests, and during it Alfred and Ivar had both spoken, but it felt that neither man was truly speaking to the other, rather they were speaking to the assembled crowd, with the vaguest indication that they were meant to be addressing primarily the other. It very much reminded Alfred of other courtly affairs he had held, though the Northmen were not like any guests that Alfred had ever hosted.

As Eahlswith had thought when meeting with Ivar, Alfred's former experience with the tribesmen of the Gaini did little to prepare either him or the court for the Northmen. Even after living with the Vikings for some months in his youth, Alfred had forgotten just how different the northmen were from the people of Wessex.

They were loud, and messy and spoke roughly to each other in their native tongue, with very little pretense of manners. At one point it seemed that one of the northmen, the one who had stood closest to Ivar when they first arrived, might get into a fight with one of the servants who was pouring wine at the feast and Alfred had almost risen from his chair to intervene, but Ivar had been the one to end the fight, but setting one of his large calloused hands on the northman's arm and subduing him before things got out of hand.

Alfred tried not to think of how strange that was, Ivar stopping a fight. It wasn't that Ivar had fought much when Alfred had been captive in their camp, but it always felt that if a physical fight was provoked, there would have been little to stop Ivar from joining in.

Alfred reminded himself that ten years had passed since then and he and Ivar were not boys anymore, with their emotions laid raw and self-control waning. Just because Ivar still enjoyed war that didn't mean he was still so quick to insult or eager to prove himself in a brawl.

As the night passed this seemed more and more true. While his fellow northmen were loud and bawdy, Ivar remained subdued, only speaking occasionally to one of his people with some careless glance, and paying even less mind to anyone else. Everyone except Alfred, who Ivar kept his gaze on near constantly.

It was both unsettling and distracting. Alfred felt all too aware of the eyes on him at any given moment, and it made it all the more of a struggle to not turn his gaze on Ivar and match whatever stare was leveled against him. When he did look, though, Alfred saw that the gaze was constant, filled with the deep intensity of a predator studying their prey. If it had not been for the crowded hall, Alfred might have told Ivar to stop what Alfred could only assume was a silent provocation, but with the people all around them all Alfred could do was look away and pretend that the looks trained on him meant nothing.

At least Eahlswith was beside him, sitting at his right side so that if needed she could speak into his hearing ear if need be. Alfred almost felt guilty about how heavily he relied on her during the night. Eahlswith cared even less for these sorts of feasts than Alfred did, and she cared for diplomatic speeches and courtly niceties even less than that. More than once Alfred had been asking a question by one of the men sitting beside him, only for Alfred to have been too busy ignoring Ivar to have heard it, or the voice spoke too quietly at his left side to be heard over the Northmen, forcing Eahlswith to answer for him before Alfred could make a fool out of himself.

She made no sign that having to do this several times bothered her, neither did she make any sign of Alfred gripping her hand under the table bothered her either. Perhaps after having met Ivar she understood why Alfred was so uneasy. Perhaps even after their fight, she still felt sympathy for Alfred.

 

After the feast ended, it wouldn't be until the next afternoon that Alfred and Ivar had a moment to speak.

The three Northmen who had come through the gates of Wessex with Ivar had all decided to venture into the town. Of course, part of the agreement made when Ivar was invited into Alfred's halls was that his people would not kill or steal from the Saxons while they remained guests, but the Northmen were not prisoners and could come and go as they pleased as long as they followed those rules.

Alfred had sent two guards to follow the Northmen into the town, to act as both translators and as a safety net in case the Northmen decided they rather not honor Alfred's deal of temporary peace. The guards also served as a source of information for Alfred. He did not think he wanted to spy on his guests, but knowledge was power and Alfred would have been a fool to turn down the opportunity to see into the minds and daily habits of his enemies.

After last night Alfred felt that he was thinking a little more clearly. The rattled feeling in his chest had gone away, and the tense air that had filled his halls seemed to have passed. Alfred was grateful for this, as it allowed him to feel more like the man he tried to be, and less like the boy Alfred had long since abandoned.

This, in part, might have had something to do with Alfred's own assumption that other than the few trailing glances, Ivar planned to behave like Alfred's invitation here was of a diplomatic sort of mission. Any sort of personal feelings was a thing of the past now, and Alfred had been foolish to let his mind think otherwise before. Neither of them were boys anymore; they were kings, and as kings they had better things to focus on than personal vendettas and past memories.

Ivar had treated Alfred more like a stranger and an equal than a former captive and estranged friend at the feast the night before. Alfred had not expected that-had not expected that civility on Ivar's part. When Alfred imagined their meeting he expected more shouting, and for all the things that had gone unsaid when they met briefly months before to be said now where Ivar had an active audience to offend. Of course, Alfred should have known better than to try and predict Ivar's behavior. He never was any good at doing that, even before when he was still a captive in the Northmen camp and he and Ivar spent the days together.

 

Surrounded by the dark, tapestried walls of the study, Alfred stared down at a map, mouth pressed closed in thought. He let his eyes trail over the marked passages of roads and former Danish bases, which had steadily grown closer and closer to Wessex with each passing season. The winter had sent the Danes elsewhere for the last few months, but Alfred knew that with spring already blossoming, the Danes too would sprout out of the cracks in Alfred's defenses and mount another attack on his people.

Like with all his other thoughts, this was the first time in days that Alfred was able to study his maps and letters seriously and try to think of what strategy he should take when the Danes returned to war.

Every advisor or general had a different opinion of what to do, and even Eahlswith had her own thoughts on the matter, but Alfred had still yet to determine his own. So far, his strategies had kept the Danes from making any substantial victories against him, but they had never been enough to defeat the Danes entirely. Eahlswith and Alfred were in agreement when she said she was tired of worrying about if her children would ever see anything other than war. A victory-a final victory-over the Danes was long overdue, and Alfred was eager to either make peace with them, or drive them out of his country for good.

It was impossible to say how long Alfred stared down at that map of Wessex, ruminating on his own thoughts that were finally reaching some form of clarity. All Alfred knew for certain was that he did not hear when the door to his study opened and someone stepped inside.  
Even then, Alfred did not know how long he went without noticing the presence of the newcomer, or how long they must have stood watching Alfred grimace at his map, because it was only when Alfred's attendant came running into the room, announcing the presence of the guest did Alfred look up and see.

Alfred had thought that Ivar would have gone into the village with his fellow Northmen, he had not expected him to stay in the castle while the others went away. But there Ivar stood, back slouched against the stone wall, beside the door he had quietly entered through, and had been quietly watching Alfred.

The attendant was meant to stand at the alcove of the antechamber of Alfred's study and come into the room to announce to Alfred any guests who might want his time. This was the traditional practices of kings, and one that Alfred tended to enforce. He did not like to be interrupted when he was in here and at work. There were already so many distractions as king that Alfred liked to keep this study that had been so favored by his grandfather as a place of solitude. Even Eahlswith had to be invited in or announced if she wished to visit him during these hours, and the only exception to this rule was Alfred's children, whom could come and go as they pleased, though they did not come to visit Alfred when he was here at all.

 

The attendant cleared his throat, face red from running, and eyes skittering fearfully at Ivar who so carelessly had placed himself in Alfred's haven. "King Alfred, ruler of Wessex and Mercia and the surrounding lands, King Ivar of Dublin wishes to hold council with you during this given time if you so do wish."

 

Alfred pressed his lips together in a grimace, glancing over to see how Ivar coughed into his fist, hiding an amused grin. He looked so much older and in some ways, more carefree. At least at the moment he did, the previous night during the feast, Alfred would not have described him that way, but right now there appeared to be something almost impish about the way Ivar had inserted himself into the room.

 

"Yes, thank you, Cenric, I can see that now. Thank you." Alfred's word were disapproving and dismissive, and Cenric didn't even meet his eyes as he cleared his throat again and asked if Alfred would like him to alert the council of the meeting. "No, Cenric, you may leave." Alfred said, trying to keep his tone civil, though all he wanted was for Cenric to disappear from sight and for Ivar to stop looking at Alfred with those laughing eyes.

 

When they were alone Ivar glanced at the map Alfred had been looking at and Alfred easily moved some papers over the image of Wessex. Along with the markings of the Danish bases there were marks of where Alfred had sent his own men to make camps and patrol the area. Alfred could not forget that Ivar had already sided with the Danes in this war, and Alfred still had to assume that Ivar would side with them again, even if he had agreed to this temporary show of peace.

 

"If this is what passes for your protection," Ivar finally said as he stepped away from the wall, strong arms crossed over his chest as he walked deeper into the study, "I am surprised that you are not already dead."

 

"It is not for lack of trying on the part of my enemies," Alfred walked around the table and stood in front of it, but Ivar did not stop walking once reaching Alfred and instead walked around him to sit behind the desk on the chair Alfred usually occupied. This made Alfred grimace again, but he only turned to face Ivar, speaking as he watched Ivar make himself comfortable in the king of Wessex's chair, "Have you come to criticize my guards now?"

 

Ivar made an indifferent face and shrugged as he folded his hands over his stomach as he leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs that were bound tight by the braces, acting as if this was a very normal conversation to have. "That was not my intention in coming here, but after seeing that dog's," Ivar jerked his chin towards the shut door, "piss poor job at protecting you I think perhaps you need my council on these matters after all."

 

Alfred moved so that his hip rested against the polish wood of the desk and he crossed his arms, looking far less casual than Ivar managed to, but feeling strangely at ease. He snorted silently and rolled his eyes, "Cenric is not my guard, he is my attendant. I do not call for guards to be posted outside every room I might occupy. If my halls remained that dangerous that I needed to, I do not think I would be a king worth protecting at all."

 

Ivar raised an eyebrow, and the gesture felt so very familiar that Alfred nearly forgot that it had been ten years since either of them had such casual conversation. "That is foolish. You do not think you need guards protecting you when you house an enemy in your halls?"

"Are you my enemy?" Alfred asked, words spoken easily and without pause as if it was the natural question to ask, as if the answers didn't hold the fate of Wessex, as if it only mattered to Alfred.

 

Ivar, who had been keeping gaze with Alfred, now looked away. He was moving his large hand over the papers on the desk, picking some up and reading them. Alfred might try to snatch them away, but he had already read those letters and knew that they only spoke of one of the churches in Mercia, which had now agreed to implement English in their weekly sermons given that Alfred send a new bishop to attend the grounds there as their own was near death. Making the push for the churches and monastic sanctuaries to use English instead of Latin when teaching the Bible to the common people had been something Alfred was proud of, but it clearly held no interest to Ivar who had stopped reading the letter and now was only pretending to do so a moment ago.

 

"I am not your ally." Ivar spoke, and while his eyes remained on the paper, all his intensity was trained on Alfred. He set the letter down and looked up, face a mask of indifference, "Is that not what you wanted, King Alfred?"

 

It may have been the way Ivar said Alfred's title like it was an insult, or perhaps a reminder that Alfred was not Ivar's friend, nor was he someone Ivar cared to be familiar with, but Alfred thought the blow he felt to his chest had more to do with the reminder of the last conversation Alfred had with Ivar ten years ago.

Alfred could remember it very clearly now. He had been sixteen and certain his death was on the next horizon. Certain that the future of his kingdom, of his mother, of everything he cared about was already set in stone and unchangeably grim. Ivar's future, at that time, had very much been the same, having lost favor with the northmen in his army. Ivar had asked Alfred to leave Wessex with him and escape to Ivar's home in Kattegat.

An argument had erupted from there, and Alfred could barely remember the exact insults traded, only that Ivar had said that Alfred only rejected the offer of escape because of his pride-Alfred had countered saying that Ivar only made the offer out of selfishness, and that if he knew Alfred at all he would know why Alfred could never agree to running away with him. At the end of the fight Alfred had turned to leave and told Ivar that he was no ally of his, not anymore.

 

Alfred swallowed thickly and turned his head away, feeling the eyes Ivar bore into him burn. Alfred did not need the reminder of the past he had long decided to abandon feelings for. He did not need Ivar to provoke some sort of aggression out of him or make him revisit an argument that was dead and buried. The past was meant to stay in the past; why did Ivar need to challenge that?

 

"I believe I told you that I wanted peace," Alfred said, diverting the subject, as he walked around the desk, past Ivar, and to the window. He rested his back against it, forcing Ivar to turn in the chair if he wanted to look at him with his intense glare. "I don't see why that isn't possible for our people now?"

 

Ivar did in fact turn, moving the chair with him so it dragged against the floor, creaking, until both it and Ivar faced Alfred. If anyone else had done this it might have seemed tedious to Alfred, but Ivar made the gesture like a man unwilling to yield to anyone else's games.

With Alfred blocking the light from the window, it looked that a shadow was cast over Ivar's sitting form. "I thought we agreed before that there would be no peace between us."

 

Alfred did not need to be reminded of this either. Alfred had tried to make a similar proposition to Ivar when they had met with the Danes months ago. When Alfred had offered it then, it was more out of wistful impulse than anything else, like Alfred had been reciting a drunken dream, forgetting entirely what sort of entity he was speaking to. Now Alfred was not so naïve. Now he had a plan.

 

"Then why did you agree to come stay in my halls?" Alfred said, choosing to gather more information first before making his final move. At least that was one purpose of Alfred's question, another was that Alfred truly desired an answer out of the other man about why Ivar would agree to this temporary stay of peace when he had long ago promised to kill Alfred and finish his victory over Wessex.

 

Ivar now pulled at his leather cuffs that fit over his wrists, pulling at the threads tying them in place and leaving Alfred's question unanswered for another beat. The gesture was lazy, or at least was meant to conceive a sense of relax, but Alfred was shrewd enough to wonder if Ivar was buying time before he spoke.

 

"Perhaps I was bored of sleeping on the dirt," Ivar offered ideally, and then looked up with a sharkish grin, "Perhaps I liked the look of the messenger you sent to call on me."

 

Alfred bristled, knowing that Ivar was speaking of Eahlswith and not the messenger he beheaded. Ivar had meant to rile Alfred's defenses as a means of distracting Alfred from finding whatever the true answer to his question might have been, and it worked.

 

"Perhaps you are lying," Alfred said instead of pressing for an answer of his previous question.

 

"Perhaps I am." Ivar challenged, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The hungry grin on his lips had not faltered, but now it felt as if it had a very different direction. Ivar let his eyes trail down Alfred with the same fervent intensity of the previous night, though in the privacy of the study, the gaze felt impossibly more offensive. "Perhaps I like the look of her husband better."

 

Alfred's face went red as he stood rigidly stiff, lips pressed in a firm line, and mind completely blank. This…this had not been something Alfred had expected. This was something that the Ivar from ten years before would never have so casually thrown out-not the boy who at first had so tentatively kissed Alfred in the darkness of their shared tent, or who so defensively protected himself against any perceived rejection Alfred might have posed. The Ivar who sat in front of Alfred now though, only spread his arms across the back of the chair, leaning back without care or caution to how his words might be perceived, a self-satisfied smirk pointed at Alfred as if Ivar had planned this whole conversation out so that it would end here.

Alfred tried not to give Ivar the satisfaction of leaving his speechless for a moment longer. This was simply a new tactic of manipulation and control. Ivar needed to keep the upper hand and the best way to do that was to keep Alfred startled and on his toes and to provoke the most sensitive parts of their shared past. Ivar clearly had no problem using such events as a weapon anymore, Alfred shouldn't either.

 

"Perhaps you have driven the Danes against you just as you did your brother the last time we were at war." Alfred said, forcing the flush to leave his skin and for his eyes to meet Ivar's. The mention of this-the mention of how Ivar had lost his control of the Great Heathen Army ten years ago after he had attempted to murder his own brother-brought a sour look to Ivar's face and any satisfaction from their last exchange was gone. Alfred continued, "Perhaps you are more in need of allies than you think."

 

Ivar's darkened expression kept up, "I think we both know that it is you who is in need of allies. You asked why I agreed to your invitation, but I think the better question is why you asked me here in the first place."

 

It had been a long time since Alfred ever felt bettered in a conversation such as these. He'd forgotten what talking to Ivar could be like. It was the constant struggle for higher ground, a constant fight for supremacy, an impossible struggle for the right words to say when you already knew he had better ones prepared.

Alfred stepped away from the window and went around his desk again to the place he originally stood before. He needed to give himself a moment to think of what to say, what information he was willing to surrender, and a moment to try and figure out what game Ivar was trying to play. Alfred was trying to find footing on this shifting ground.

Ivar did not give Alfred the opportunity to prove himself with words. Instead, Ivar stood up from Alfred's chair and passed Alfred by, so closely that Alfred thought he could feel the heat from Ivar's body as the air brushed past.

 

Ivar crossed the room to stand by the door. Again, Alfred was struck by how unfamiliar this Ivar seemed to him. The rougher skin of his face, the tattoos that hadn't been present before- scars that hadn't been present before. Such differences should serve as reminders to Alfred that the man he had almost thought of as friend before was gone, and that this time around, Alfred could not be so naïve as to trust the man standing before.

"For now, at least, you have nothing to fear from me," A smile played at Ivar's lips as he spoke, "Little king."

 

Alfred looked up at him, watching the other man leave, wondered if that could possibly be true.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Even with the fading winter, the air was still cold enough to send a chill straight to the bone.

 

Sometimes Alfred felt that even his blood was cold, slowly forming crystals of ice around the edges, like a slowly freezing pond. His bones would ache, desperate for warmth, and his skin felt too tight like it might fracture just like that thin ice covering the pond. Feeling this, he would be sent back to those months after the Heathen Army invaded Wessex and the castle he had called home became ruins and the grandfather, who he loved, was slain by the hands of raiders who stole every familiarity in Alfred’s life.

 

In those months Alfred had been plagued with sickness, and he always felt so cold.

 

He remembered fragments, like a hastily drawn picture of a scene that was not quite right or quite real. A newly minted king and his queen hiding away in the boggy marshes of the countryside, refugees in their own homeland. Days spent in dizzying fits of wakefulness, where Alfred’s body was too weak to move and his mind too strong to find rest. He remembers hearing his people crying, his parents fighting, and a threat of death looming over the mud and stick huts that they now called home, and it filled everyone with a sense of dread with every passing storm, as if they were just waiting for one crash of thunder to bring the army of devils to their hiding place.

 

That feeling of death—the one that hung-over Alfred’s shoulders that he had first felt while laying sick in the bogs—did not leave him for years. It was always impending, and perhaps that is why after the death of both Alfred’s father, and then brother, Alfred had decided to take his death into his own hands and accept it humbly.

 

That is what Alfred did when he rode up to the war camp of the Great Heathen Army and traded his life for his mother’s. When he passed through the spiked gates of the northmen strong hold, boots sinking into the muddy earth, lips firmly shut so that he could not think to take back what he had just done, and his body feeling the familiar cold in his bones, Alfred decided to make his death meaningful. What was the honor of dying in the masses of a raging battle? Body lost among the hundreds, sacrifice forgotten along with his name, his history written for him by the sword that cut him down—there was not honor or glory in a death like that. Alfred had seen the remnant of the corpses of his family and when he looked at them all he felt was grief. When he thought of them now, all he felt was grief.

 

Alfred’s death would not be like that. His would carry meaning—and not one that was used to propagate the continuation of a war that had taken away everything Alfred ever found comfort in—his home, his grandfather, his father and brother. No, Alfred would trade his life so that another may live. It would not be a choice made for him, but one Alfred made himself—a conscious decision of self-sacrifice, one last act of redemption for his grey soul; the choice to not fear death, to not let it be another act of senseless destruction, but to let it be an act that gave life to another.

 

Alfred meant to die on that grey morning he stepped foot into the camp of the Great Heathen army. He was _supposed_ to die. He should have died, and maybe part of Alfred, the part who had lost his home and family and had only known grief and anger, and sadness for the past years, the part of him who could not bear the weight of the crown that should have been his brother’s, maybe that part of Alfred had _wanted_ to die.

 

Again, and again, Alfred lay awake, years later, feeling the cold seep low through his blood into the hard bones, which reminded him of those early days as a prisoner in that camp, thinking he ought to have been dead a long time ago. What right did he have to live when so many who were braver, stronger, more deserving, had died? Why had Alfred, who had stood at death’s door and begged for entry, been denied access and lived?

 

His mind always came back to one answer. A stubborn reminder, that came to him like a whisper against the shell of his ear, curling over his skin like a hot gust of wind, fracturing the crystals of ice that laced across his blood and brittle bones, and said what Alfred already knew. The answer, the word that it spoke, Alfred locked away in the dark recesses of his mind—it was a twisted machination of fate, that Alfred only lived by the hand of the man who first caused Alfred’s desperation for death. Such words—such names, such secrets, such _curses—_ were best not spoken out loud.

 

And so, Alfred would shut his eyes and banish the cold that crept through the castle that reminded him of truths he already knew, and he would lay still until sleep fell upon him. Warmth never did truly touch him, not even then.

 

 

 

“You have not eaten.”

 

The words had been said with the tense turn of lips. Alfred, who had been sitting at the smooth, oak table of the private dining area, only used by the royal family, looked up, blinking absently as he tried to recall what Eahlswith just said.

 

Alfred’s mind had been elsewhere, back in the council meeting that he had just left, the one that had dragged on for hours, starting in the early afternoon and ending minutes before Eahlswith sent word to Alfred that his children wished to sup with him that night.

 

Alfred did not remember hating council meetings so much in the past, but since the arrival of his Northern guests, they had only grown more tedious and more unpleasant. It had been a week since Ivar and his three generals had come to stay in Alfred’s halls. Since then nearly every afternoon Alfred faced questions from his council asking when the Northmen planned to leave—or more accurately, when Alfred planned to make them leave.

 

In truth, Alfred did not have answers to these questions. Ivar, and his three generals, whom Alfred came to know as Olaf, Knute, and Alfhilda, had not made any sign that they planned to leave Alfred’s halls any time soon, and as they had only stayed a week, Alfred did not yet expect them to.

 

They were not the most pleasant of guests; Alfhilda, a red haired young woman who did not speak a word of the common language, seemed to scandalize Wessex and most of Alfred’s servants and courtesans with her manner of dress (leathered trouser like the northern men wore and shirts that showed off her curving frame), and then there was Knute, a man of enormous height, who was very much a mindless brute, easily getting into fights, if not actively searching them out. Olaf, who stayed closest to Ivar, and seemed to be the one Ivar trusted the most, was more unusual. He was young, thought Alfred supposed he couldn’t be more than a few years younger than himself, and had strikingly white hair. Olaf spoke the Saxon’s language well and seemed to study the Saxons every opportunity he got—despite this clearly curiousity into the culture of Wessex, Olaf also seemed to despise them all. Sneering at any of the (very few) suppers that the Northmen shared with Alfred’s court, or mocking the dress of the people he came across. It was Ivar’s ear he whispered all this snide remarks too, of course, and Ivar did nothing but keep a dim, but maliced and possibly pleased grin on his face, as if he too thought the same way. Alfred often wondered what they were talking about—Alfred hadn’t spoken to Ivar since Ivar came to his study his second day in court, and he, unlike his comrades, had not done anything to bring worried whispers to Alfred’s ears.

 

 

“Father?” It was Edward’s voice, which brought Alfred from his thoughts.

 

 

He blinked, needing to readjust himself to his surroundings; the oak table, the stiff chairs, his family—the ones who were not yet corpses, casualties of war—sitting around him. Alfred looked down at the plate his servants had brought him, food all but untouched, and then he looked towards his young son who had spoken so cautiously.

 

 

Alfred gave a tight grin, trying to resettle himself into his role of father—one that felt both so very foreign to him, and yet so dear. “Edward, tell me how you Latin is coming along with Father Cissa?”

 

 

The topic made Edward scrunch his nose in distaste, suitably making Alfred’s child forget about his former worries—and that at least eased Alfred’s conscious. It had not done the same to Eahlswith though, who still watched Alfred with shrewd, all seeing eyes, the silent concern obvious in the creases of her face.

 

 

“We are reading the Aeneid,” This clearly displeased Edward, who had not been happy with the expensive collection of books Alfred had found kept in his Grandfather’s study. Dozens of Latin texts gathered from King Ecebert’s time in Italy and in Charlemagne’s court, had been found there. Alfred was now having some of the scribes who stayed in the Scriptorium in Wessex recopy the works so that Alfred may distribute them to the other court schools he had in his kingdom. Edward rubbed his eyes with the back of his palm, clearly tired, “But Father, that is not what I wanted to ask you.”

 

 

Alfred looked fondly at his son. It was very late for the children to be up—they usually ate their supper earlier, but since Alfred had not seen them in so long Edward and Aethelweard had asked if they could take their meal with their parents. “I apologize, what was the question you wished to ask?”

 

 

Edward looked across the table to his younger brother, who had looked close to sleep before, but was now very alert. Their glances were cautious and conspiratorial, silently communicating a plan they were both convincing each other to execute.  

 

 

“Edward?” Alfred prompted and finally his eldest son looked away from his brother, cheeks red and grimaced.

 

 

“Aethelweard had wanted to know…”

 

 

“You wanted to know too!” Aethelweard sat up in the chair that was too big for him and accused his brother, looking at Alfred, “Edward brought it up first!”

 

 

Edward turned to glare at Aethelweard, but gave no proper defense, only looked back at his father and said very pointedly, “We _both_ wanted to know if you would let us meet the King of Dublin.”

 

 

“ _Boneless,”_ Aethelweard whispered in a hushed, excited tone.

 

 

Alfred felt taken off guard and looking at Eahlswith, who had been watching all of this with a slowly easing smile, now looked frozen in place. While his sons of course knew the Northmen were staying at the court, Alfred had been sure that his children were confined to a separate building of the castle, often reserved for guests, which had now been quickly converted into a place where his children could remain well protected and completely out of the way, at least until the Northmen left.

 

 

Alfred picked up his goblet, taking a drink of the water inside. When he set the cup down he was still searching for the right answer. “Is this something you would want to do,” He looked at the faces of his son’s carefully, “wanting to meet Dublin’s king?”

 

 

The title did not feel right saying on Alfred’s lips. Ivar felt like so much more than just the recent king of Dublin, but Alfred did not feel comfortable explaining every detail of that with his children just yet. He did not think they would have wanted to meet Ivar if they knew him to be the man who slaughtered both their uncle and grandfather, or the man who had so recently been allied with the Dane’s who had created Wessex into a fluctuating country of peace and violence. Then, of course, Alfred also had not ever told his children about the time he spent as prisoner and hostage in the Northmen’s camp. These were all things that might reveal themselves if his children were to come to meet Ivar. And then there were so many other things to take into consideration as well, and none very pleasant.

 

 

Again, Edward and Aethelweard shared a glance, coming to an agreement before Edward spoke for them both. He nodded diplomatically, looking much older than his seven years. “We believe it would be very edif—edifying to meet with their King.”

 

 

Aethelweard nodded eagerly in agreement, “Ediflying.” He attempted to repeat quietly.

 

 

Their speech, clearly previously rehearsed, almost brought a proud smile to Alfred’s face. One look at Eahlswith told him the answer Alfred already knew to say, though, and it hurt to think he could not give his children all that they wanted.

 

 

“I think you have a very valid point, Edward,” Alfred looked across the table, “Aethelweard. But, I do not think that the King of Dublin has the time to meet with you—not enough so that the experience may be edifying, as you so seek.”

 

 

Eahlswith seemed to relax at this answer, as if she really thought Alfred would have answered any differently. Things had still been tense between them since the Northmen agreed to stay at court. Alfred knew that she was merely worried about the safety of their children, but her behavior had started to make Alfred feel as if he too was an enemy, and one Eahlswith was trying to protect their children from. It hurt surprisingly deeply. Alfred had always considered Eahlswith his greatest ally, and now knowing that she did not feel the same—that she no longer trusted Alfred to put the safety of his children above all else—it stung like the cold touch of ice forced against skin. When the Northmen left, Alfred knew that Eahlswith would return to her former mind, but until then, Alfred would just be rot with his own paranoia that maybe she was right.

 

His son’s faces fell, and again returned to each other as if trying to reconvene. Eahlswith cleared her throat before they could come up with a new tactic to persuade Alfred into letting them leave their confinement and go out to meet the Northmen who had court gossip so asunder.

 

 

“It is late and we have bothered Father enough for one night.” She waved a hand to one of the servants, the boy’s wet nurse, who stood at the door. The older woman gathered the boys from their seats and started moving them away. “You have your studies in the morning, and Father and I must still speak.”

 

 

Alfred suddenly felt just as chastised as his son’s, wondering what it was Eahlswith needed to speak to him about. Was she too going to try and convince Alfred that the Northmen had stayed long enough? It was obvious she wanted them gone, despite being the reason they were here in the first place, but with spring growing stronger every day and the Northmen still no closer to allying with Wessex, the purpose of inviting Ivar to here still had not been fulfilled.

 

When the boys had said their goodnights, and the door to the hall shut closed, Eahlswith stayed in her seat, sitting opposite of Alfred at the table and feeling so very removed, like a goddess sitting atop her clouded castle, casting judgement upon Alfred’s soul. She looked at Alfred, lips closed and eyes watching.

 

It felt as if the cold air from the early spring night was seeping through the cracks in the castle and bringing a chill to the air. It pinched at Alfred’s skin, making him feel too aware of every thought she might be levying against him.

 

 

“What is it that you wanted to speak about then?” Alfred said when he couldn’t take the silence for any longer.

 

He was meant to be a king, but Eahlswith knew him too well for that. She knew all his secrets and weaknesses and sins, and with such knowledge always came the feeling of unwilling exposure and weakness, as if because she knew all those things she also knew that Alfred was all too human in the way a king was not supposed to be and she had no choice but judge him for all those failings.

 

 

“You have not eaten.” She looked over at Alfred’s plate and then so did Alfred.

 

 

It was the statement she had made earlier, when Alfred was still too lost in his own troubles. The statement was still true now, and other than the half drained cup that sat beside Alfred’s plate, his food was untouched.

 

 

“Oh, yes.” Alfred’s voice fell lamely, as if the untouched food confused him more than Eahlswith’s insistency for him to acknowledge it. He looked away from the plate, “It was a long day. I fear politics have stolen my appetite and my morality.”

 

 

The joke did not find landing. Alfred’s jokes never seemed to ever ease her or dissuade Eahlswith from trouble. They only ever made her frown deeper, as if they too were fuel for her analysis. All her time spent being quiet made Eahlswith an excellent witness—there was not a shift in words or a subtle movement that she did not catch. Alfred wondered if it had been her grandparent’s intention to make their granddaughter such a keen study of character when they trained her to be a lovely shadow for the walls. Alfred did not think so, they would not have intended for their sacrificial lamb to be quite as dangerous as Alfred knew her to be.

 

 

“You are not sleeping either.”

 

 

Alfred slouched back in her chair, already knowing where this conversation was going to lead. Alfred’s life felt very circular, and like the cold that crept across Alfred’s skin, this conversation kept revisiting him.

 

 

“Well, you wouldn’t know.” Alfred rarely let himself sound so petulant. “We do not sleep together.”

 

 

Like jokes, Alfred’s barbs never seemed to touch her. Eahlswith did not even shift with guilt or admission, she simply studied Alfred more shrewdly, adding Alfred’s aggression to his list of flaws. “Are you unwell again.”

 

 

It was not a question, because Eahlswith already knew the answer. They’d lived in proximity too long to not know each other’s patterns. Just like Alfred knew when Eahlswith’s past revisited her in dark waves, she knew when his did too.

 

 

“I am not unwell.” Alfred tilted his head away, wishing he was deaf in both ears to that he would have some excuse to ignore the rest of this conversation. He felt like one of his children, avoiding discipline. “I am busy, as a king ought to be. Will you fault me for missing a meal or losing sleep if it was sacrificed to better my country? Is that not what a king ought to do? Go without so that my people can have what I do not?”

 

 

Eahlswith did not answer this question. Her eyes were very sad though, and her frown very deep, and Alfred did not even feel like one of his children anymore, he felt like a beggar on the street, so obviously helpless and pitied by all and yet so disillusioned that he was not even aware of his own poverty.

 

 

 

“The last time—”

 

 

 

“This is not like the last time.” Alfred did not even let her finish the thought. The last time had been months after Aethelweard was born and the Danes sacked Abingdon and slaughtered a village before Alfred had even been informed that they had returned from the North. The last time Alfred hadn’t had the experience he had now, he hadn’t let his skin grow thick yet to keep away the cold.

 

 

“And would you tell me if it was?”

 

 

Alfred did not answer. He would not even look up from the place on the stone wall, where the candlelight flickered against the tapestries, that he so fervently stared at so his thoughts would not wander.

 

Eahlswith sighed, so obviously wishing to say more, but knowing that Alfred was not in the state to listen to her. He did not want her to be right, and perhaps it was the pride of a king that convinced him that she wasn’t.

 

 

“You have not made progress with the Northmen.” Eahlswith said, topic shifted, but tone the same.

 

 

Alfred at least felt familiarity in this subject after having mounted a defense for it all day. “Diplomacy takes time, especially when the subject of it is a foreign concept to those you wish to make peace with.”

 

 

Eahlswith gave a single nod, both agreeing and readying a counterpoint. In the candlelight she looked much older than she was, the experience she carried in life, lining her face with each flicker of captured light. “And you have tried to make peace?”  


 

“Of course, I’ve tried.” Alfred frowned and then amended stubbornly, “I am trying. Every day I defend our guests against our court of snakes and try to make them see reason.”

 

 

“Snakes?” Eahlswith scoffed, “You truly are tired then, you aren’t even pretending to respect the opinions of your advisors.”

 

 

Alfred humbled himself, “I respect their opinions in many matters, but they are opinions of my grandfather’s generation. Wise in many matters, but unfortunately blind in many more.”

 

 

The advisors had been appointed with the help and insistency of Alfred’s mother, Judith, when he first became king. In matters of war and strategy, or in taxation and government, the men could be swayed, and even helpful to Alfred’s decision making. When it came to the Northmen though, the old men were too blinded with hatred of the past to see any chance of partnership with the people who had once been their enemies.

 

 

“And I suppose neither you nor they have the patience to aid them in sight.” Eahlswith sighed, and Alfred noticed that she also seemed to not have slept well in the last few days. Alfred was sure she always had a guard with her now so she would not feel to be in any danger, but the presence of the Northmen still weighed heavily on her. “That is no matter. It is not your council that needs convincing.”

 

 

Alfred grimaced, “Then you mean the Northmen.”

 

 

“I mean Ivar.” Eahlswith clarified, lifting her brows as she leaned forward in her chair a little, “Why are you afraid to say his name? I have not heard it on your lips since he arrived, and yet, I remember it so liberally being used in the past.”

 

 

Alfred felt a flushed heat crawl on his neck, and he looked away again, “You keep mentioning the past like it is relevant. These past few days it has been made clear to me that the man I knew in youth is not the man in our halls today.”

 

 

“I don’t see how you could possibly know that,” Eahlswith said, somehow encompassing sympathy and sharpness in her tone, “I’ve not seen you speak to either Ivar or those brutes he brought with him once this whole week. Is your strategy to wait until they come to you, because I do not think the court will wait that long and neither will I.”

 

 

Alfred’s jaw clicked as he worked his teeth together, grinding them as he thought through complicated matters he yet had the ability to make understood. “You are unhappy with me. At least you’re in fair company then. Not only is the whole court on your side, but I believe the Northmen are as well. They did not accept our invitation in order to be our ally—this is all just a game for them. I don’t think they mean us harm, they just mean to frustrate and they are succeeding. My court is in knots, trying to untangle themselves—or perhaps untangle me—from the web we’ve fallen into. I don’t know these people, I do not know this man who leads them, I do not know what they want.”

 

 

“And what do you want?” Her voice was so quiet that it rivaled the silence of the flickering candles that lit the table.

 

What did Alfred want? He had answered the question so many times before that if God struck him deaf, blind, and dumb, he could still make his message known. All Alfred wanted was peace. Since the moment the first war struck and Alfred’s family was cast into the wilderness and the cold found home in his bones, all Alfred wanted was to find peace. When his brother and father were struck down in battle and Alfred became the fourth King of Wessex since the war began, he just wanted peace. When he traded his life for his mother’s and became hostage to the Heathen Army, Alfred just wanted peace. When Alfred saw Ivar on that hill when he was meant to be meeting with the Danes, and Ivar, after disappearing from the world for ten years and looked at Alfred with eyes that provoked conflict, and asked Alfred _what did he really want?_ All Alfred could say was peace.

 

It was never a lie. It was still not a lie; but it was not all Alfred wanted, was it? Alfred did not even know what he wanted, he had never given himself the time to find out, not when his ultimate goal was still being worked towards, not when trying to make peace had consumed his whole life.

 

A chill swept through the air and the skin on Alfred’s arms prickled. _What do you want?_ It seemed to ask. _I want to keep out the cold._

 

 

“I want what we all want.” Alfred felt the late hour of the evening fall upon him, “Peace; God’s will to be delivered, blessings upon Wessex, our children to grow up strong and happy.”

 

 

Eahlswith looked at Alfred sadly, and he did not know what he had said wrong, only that he wished he knew what answers to say that might make her worry less for him. “You are a very good king, you know this Alfred?”  


 

Alfred did. He had seen the changes he made to Wessex and Mercia and the other regions he had expanded into and he saw what good he could do as King. He had learned how to make his power, not a weapon to be wielded against enemies, but a hand to reach out towards the people. Early in his reign, Alfred did not think he could possibly live up to the expectations of king, that he could not possibly surpass the leadership of his father and grandfather, but Alfred did not feel that way now. Power was not something that he would let corrupt him like it did others. Alfred may have failings in many things, but having a constant strive to do good by his people was not one of them.

 

 

“You are a very good king,” Eahlswith said again, that sad look still on her face, “But I fear you have forgotten how to be a good man.”

 

 

Alfred bristled, unexpectedly, “What?”  


 

Eahlswith shook her head, dismissively, leaving her thoughts unfinished. “Talk to Ivar. He is the only one you need to convince to be our ally. If you can do that it does not matter what your advisors say. We all want this war with the Danes to end, if King Ivar’s army can help us do that, if whatever knowledge he has about the Danes can help us end the stalemate, then no one will care about the past.”

 

 

“Its not so simple. I’ve told you, he does not want to be our ally.” Alfred was still thinking of what Eahlswith had said before, trying to grasp her meaning.

 

 

“Convince him otherwise.” Eahlswith stood up from her chair and went around the table to stand beside Alfred. She set her hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her, trying to gauge the meaning in her brown eyes. “The past is gone. Maybe its better that you do not know what man he is now. It doesn’t matter what man he is now, it does not matter that you think he does not want to aid us either. I don’t ask you to do what causes you pain, I just ask you to pretend. Pretend to be his friend, pretend whatever it is he wants is true. Pretend that the past is not yet gone and there is still hope for you both to fix your mistakes. Pretend that we are his salvation. Our court, the Danes, our children, will not wait for Ivar’s games to come to an end, you have to start playing Alfred, and you have to win.”

 

 

Alfred unconsciously reached out for Eahlswith’s hand on his shoulder, seeking its warmth, but it moved away before he could touch, “We could win without them.”

 

 

“Yes, we could.” Eahlswith agreed, “But how much longer will that take?”

 

 

Alfred tipped his head back in his chair and closed his eyes, “Very well. I will put more effort in this _friendship_ then. I make no promises that we are not wasting our time though. I have already started contingency plans for when this all falls to ruin.”

 

 

Eahlswith laughed, the tone was light, a small glimmer of comfort before she stepped away entirely and felt unreachable again. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. I’m sure that is what kept you awake so late at night. Not tonight though; go to sleep Alfred, find rest. The world will not crumble if you are not holding it up for one night.”

 

 

Alfred wished he believed that was true. He nodded his head and went up to stand. He felt the brief feeling of dizziness as he did, his blood sloshing to his head and cause spots in his vision momentarily. He set a hand on the back of his chair and waited for it to pass, listening to Eahlswith move towards the doors and leave him be.

 

Alfred sent one of the servants forward to his chambers, asking them to be sure a fire was lit in the room to keep out the chilly air of the night. Ever since Wessex’s castle fell in the first war with the Heathen Army, the ruins that had been rebuilt hadn’t been restored to the complete sanctity of the past. There were unseen cracks that let in the night and wind and elements that were best left locked outside the gates.

 

This is what Alfred thought about as he went to his chambers, the spots in his vision fading and the chilly air becoming routine. A guard walked a few paces behind him, something that ordinarily would not be present, but did not serve to make Alfred feel less alone. As he walked he heard the sounds of voices, dull in the wide hall and in Alfred’s ear. He tilted his head to listen, leaving his course to turn and follow the noise.

 

He came out to a courtyard, near where his guests were staying. The four Northmen were out on the grassy square, completely unbothered by the icy bite of air. In the moonlight the looked very free, as if stone walls made them prisoners, but out here in the wild, they were all kings.

 

Alfhilda had a wooden training sword in her hand and was sparing with the giant, Knute, who held a similar one in his own. If it were not for Alfred having asked for them to set aside their weapons when they entered Wessex, he would have imagined they would have used real steel and they still would have been equally unbothered by any consequences that might have caused. The two of them moved like it was a dance, moving and turning and laughing as they took advantage of the large field in their battle of pretend.

 

Ivar and his shadow, Olaf, sat against a rack of practice weapons, those used by Alfred’s army when they trained in the day, and watched the fight. It only held part of the attention, their eyes turning upward when the sound of the wooden swords clanged together or when either Alfhilda or Knute made taunting remarks to each other. Otherwise, Ivar and Olaf spoke. The two northmen seemed to speak casually to one another, Alfred thought he recognized the thoughtful, sharp looks Ivar made every now and then, as if falling into strategic thought.

 

Alfred did not know what he did to make himself known. He had still been standing quietly in the alcove just outside the courtyard, hidden by the shadows and the night, and not even moving, just letting his focus shift from the fight and then back to Ivar’s thoughtful visage. Somehow though, despite this, Ivar did look up and across the yard, his eyes found Alfred.

 

It was not anxiety that filled Alfred now—it was not that at all. But when Ivar’s face did not turn to calculation or anger or disinterest when he saw Alfred and instead a true, honest smile quirked his lips, what Alfred felt could not be described as ease either. It was familiarity and the most painful kind. Maybe it was also relief.

 

Ivar stood, using Olaf’s shoulder to push himself up, and that is when Alfred saw the bottle of ale that had been sitting between the two men. In the night he could not see if it was empty, but Alfred did not need sight to know that it would have been. Alfred did not want to think that this changed the context of Ivar’s grin, but it did.

 

Ivar made fast work of coming up to the alcove, and as he did, Alfred waved his guard back, telling him to return to the hall and wait for Alfred there. The guard left just as Ivar came up to the wall of the alcove, setting one arm beside where Alfred stood and leaned forward some. Doing this, Ivar never left the grass of the courtyard, just as Alfred never left the safety of the stone doorway.

 

 

“What are you doing out here so late?” There was alcohol on Ivar’s breath, but his words came out surprisingly clear, and unsurprisingly lofty. It seemed that they were both in agreement that Ivar was the king of this yard, and Alfred was the intruder upon the night.

 

 

“I could ask you the same,” Alfred felt strangely at ease speaking to Ivar while he was like this. With the other man, assumedly well into his cups, Alfred felt as if he could lower his guard, even a little. “I see you are enjoying the goods Wessex has to offer. Think of what other goods you could take advantage of if Dublin became our trading partner.”

 

 

Ivar’s lips quirked again, near a laugh. In the night, Alfred had not noticed before, Ivar’s eyes looked just as bright and just as hungry as during the day. In his drunken state he leaned forward with the wall a little more, “I do not think Wessex would let me take advantage of the goods I truly want, even then.” Ivar moved back and tilted his head back towards the fight as swords clashed, “Is it the Christian way now to try and trick allegiances out of the drunken?”

 

 

Alfred doubted Ivar had taken enough ale to be considered drunken, though there was a sort of unprotected carelessness to his speech that made Alfred think that he had enough to drink so that the hard edges that Ivar kept around himself had turned dull.

 

 

“Whatever strategy meets me my ends,” Alfred shrugged, jokingly, and Ivar did smile, reaching forward like he was going to clasp Alfred on the shoulder, but at the last moment pulling away as, Olaf, came up to his side.

 

 

Annoyance pricked at Alfred as he stepped back, and Ivar leaned away. Olaf spoke quietly into Ivar’s ear in the Nordic language, and Alfred tried not to lean forward to show that he was trying to hear. When he had been taken captive by the Northmen before, Alfred had not known their language, but since then he had learned the Dane’s dialect and could understand a fair majority of what was spoken.

 

With his bad ear though, and the wind picking up, and Olaf whispering, Alfred missed what was said. Whatever it was, Ivar shoved at Olaf roughly, almost sending the other man to the ground. Ivar said the equivalent to _fuck off_ in Norse, and Olaf made some response that was carried away with the wind. Olaf fixed the front of his shirt and straightened himself, sending an icy glare at Alfred as he went back to watch the fight, leaving Ivar and Alfred alone again.

 

 

Ivar watched Olaf walk away, eyes narrowed, and only turned his head when Olaf was a suitable distance and settled back in his former spot. Turning back towards Alfred, Ivar leaned back against the alcove, though it was not so carefree as before.

 

 

“Why are you here?” Ivar asked, the suspicion in his voice more playful than mistrustful. “Should you not be in bed with your wife?”

 

 

Alfred felt some tension return to his frame and he lifted a hand to rub against his jaw as he tried to find a suitable answer. Certainly not the truth, which Alfred was sure Ivar would mock him for. Ivar would have also said Alfred was _not a real man_ if he knew that, though he thought Eahlswith meant that with a much different meaning.

 

 

“I’m king, aren’t I allowed to do what I please?” Alfred kept the palm of his hand resting between his collar and neck as he shrugged, wondering if these were the conversations men his age had. Alfred was far too used to speaking to old men who argue over tax regulation, or his young boys who only wanted to talk about their idealized heroes in epic poetry their nurses recited. Alfred hadn’t fought in a war since he was crowned king, and he had not shared that sort of masculine camaraderie since…well since Alfred was still a hostage in the heathen camp.

 

 

“Do you,” Ivar asked, tone dipping again, and a cold shiver passing Alfred by, “Do what you please?”

 

 

Alfred did not think there was a correct way to answer that and so instead he glanced over Ivar’s broad shoulder, over towards where Knute and Alfhilda still play fought. “They are very good. My army would benefit from training with them.”

 

 

“I remember your army being just fine when we fought years ago.” Ivar said without reproach, simply remembering the past just as Eahlswith had described it. As something that was done and over and had no effect now.

 

 

Alfred shrugged again, “They do not falter in battle. We’ve kept the Danes off long enough to prove that. Its poor strategy to not try to learn new methods of battle though, is it not? I think our people would benefit very much if we learned to…”

 

 

Ivar looked back at him, still waiting for Alfred to finish, “Learned to what?”  


 

Alfred did not know. He had the idea in his mind, but could not think of a word that would describe what he meant. Learn to work together? Learn to share knowledge? Learn to get along? None felt right, and so again Alfred shrugged.

 

It was about now, as Ivar had been waiting for Alfred to think of how to finish his thought, that Ivar’s eyes narrowed somewhat as he studied Alfred’s face. The clanging swords in the background were forgotten, Olaf’s glaring eyes, forgotten. Ivar leaned in again, and this time he pointed one of his fingers uncomfortably close to Alfred’s face. Alfred leaned back to avoid the tip of Ivar’s finger poking him in the eye.

 

 

“What is wrong with you?”

 

 

“What is wrong with me?” Alfred repeated, tone lilting thinking he wanted to ask Ivar the same question, “What do you mean?”

 

 

“Look at you,” Ivar said like it was obvious. He moved his finger away and instead used the hand to gesture at Alfred as a whole with disapproval, “You look like shit. What do they have you doing here that their king looks like a drunken clod.”

 

 

“I look drunken?” Alfred scoffed indignantly.

 

 

Ivar gave a solid nod, “No wonder you need my help so bad. You look like the Danes already killed you months ago. Get some fucking sleep.”

 

 

Alfred ducked his head, ignoring the red crawl up his neck. His exhaustion must be very obvious if Eahlswith wasn’t the only one noticing it. For once, Alfred hoped the cold in his bones might keep back his flush just enough that in the night it would not be seen.

 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a hand was placed against Alfred’s jaw. It tilted his head up, palm moving back so that it nearly wrapped towards the nape of his neck. The touch was gentle, neither hesitant nor bold, but it was certain, as if it knew where it belonged.

 

Alfred looked at Ivar, given very little choice in the matter with Ivar’s warm palm against his flushed skin. Ivar’s fingers seemed to move against the hair on the back of Alfred’s neck, like they were keeping themselves from latching on. Like before, in the study, Alfred was struck with a feeling a thoughtlessness, his mind going blank and his body still.

 

 

Face dimming, Ivar seemed to realize this. That carefree drunkenness was gone, and Ivar looked very much sober. His hand tightened fractionally where it rested, “Go to sleep, Alfred.”

 

 

And then the hand snaked away, and Alfred felt bare without it. He wished to reach out and touch where Ivar’s hand used to be, but he kept himself from that, merely nodding his head, ignoring the desire to recognize the way Ivar said his name. Alfred was not brave enough to match the phrase. Maybe Eahlswith was right, maybe Alfred was afraid to speak Ivar’s name out loud, like it might summon something Alfred was not prepared to battle.

 

While Alfred stood frozen, it was Ivar who stepped away. His sobered eyes did not spare Alfred a glance. He turned around and went back over to where Olaf sat, now with Alfhilda and Knute joining him, their fight had ended some time ago.

 

Feeling the eyes of the others on him, Alfred turned quickly, disappearing back into the alcove and leaving the sanctity of the courtyard behind. He did not feel that he belonged there.

 

As he walked back to his chambers, the footsteps of the guard behind him echoing heavily with every step, Alfred felt the heat of Ivar’s touch imprinted on his skin and the chill of the night would not take it away.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Alfred never begrudged a liar.

 

He understood the necessity of lying long before he was crowned king. His grandfather, Ecebert taught him its uses during those days he spent studying with him while his father and brother were out in the yard wielding weapons.

 

Alfred had no qualms lying when he knew it served a noble purpose. Deceit was sometimes necessary when one was dealing with political courts. It was like strategy; no one called it a sin when you tricked your enemy into falling into a trap, why was tricking a rival into following your plan any different?

 

It was unpleasant business, lying. Alfred knew that. Deception was frowned upon by the church; trickery, denigrations, lies, it was all a sin. Maybe better men would not succumb to using it to achieve their goals, but Alfred did not feel the sway of guilt when he lied. Perhaps such tendencies were inborn; remnants of the circumstances of his sinful conception, which left him numb to the shame that kept other men from crafting lies when they needed to complete their goals.

 

Alfred did not know, and as he sat in mass, the ceilings of the chapel arching high over him, the hum of prayer filling the air, Alfred thought of every sin he never thought to confess and wondered how much darker his soul would be because of it.

 

When mass ended and Alfred received his blessing from the cleric, he thought if only his people could see how tainted his heart was. Would they still trust him to be king, if they could?

 

 

 

 

 

“Keep your guard up!” The words were shouted over the training field, the hiss of disgust obvious even by a deaf man as long as they could see the way Ivar’s lips curled around the order as he watched over the Saxon militia who trained in the field.

 

 

Ivar had come to Alfred a day or so after their late talk in the courtyard a few nights ago and told Alfred that he would let his Northmen train with the Saxons. Ivar did not bother explaining why he decided to take up the suggestion Alfred had made those nights ago. Alfred had only been half serious when he posed it, and certainly did not think Ivar would have genuinely considered it. He did, though, and now about five or so Northmen trained in the open field along with Alfred’s more senior soldiers.

 

Alfred watched the training a little ways away, standing with one of his generals, Godric, who was credited with choosing the men who would come out here and train with Ivar’s. Ivar was present as well, though he did not stand at the distance with Alfred and Godric, rather he was leaning heavily against the fence that surrounded the training yard and shouted critiques and orders at the Saxon men, who unfortunately did not yet rival the Northmen in open hand combat.

  

“The soldiers are uncomfortable fighting against that woman.” Godric’s face was always very grim, no more so than now, as he narrowed his eyes as the wild red hair of Alfhilda who was engaged in combat against two of Alfred’s men. She moved with a shield strapped to her arm, an ax in her hand, and a predatory grin on her face. The soldiers put against her were keeping their distance, and when they did try an attack it was timid and easily put off.

 

 Alfred grimaced. While he had not fought in a battle since his brother’s death eleven years ago, he did remember fighting against the Northmen before. He remembered how the soldiers had no qualms against killing Viking women then.

 

“Then they have much to learn from her.” Alfred kept his arms crossed as he tracked the movements of his soldiers, watching as they kept in their lines and ranks while the northmen danced around them, hacking with blunted steel and looking for any opening they could get. It was not just Alfhilda that they were uncomfortable fighting against, it seemed Alfred’s soldiers were uncomfortable with this training exercise as a whole.

 

Godric scoffed, “I apologize, your majesty, but I don’t see the point of this.”

 

Alfred looked at him, raising a brow. Godric had been one of his father, Aethelwulf’s, commanders during the war with the Great Heathen army. He was a skilled general and had fought and won many battles in the name of Wessex, and Alfred often thought he could place great trust in the man.

 

“You do not see the point in studying your enemy’s manner of combat?” Alfred asked him.

 

Godric straightened his back, mouth pinched, “I know you need no reminding your majesty, but as we study the Northmen’s manner of combat, this exercise gives them the chance to do the same to ours.”

  

Alfred took in a slow breath. Godric was not wrong. Allowing the Northmen and Saxons to train in the same yard together gave both sides equal opportunity to study the other and find any weaknesses in the defenses of their enemy.

 

Alfred pushed away from the wooden platform he and Godric stood on and went over to the grass. He was in no mood to admit Godric had a point in the matter and that Alfred was taking a risk in allowing Ivar to oversee the training of their men. Ivar was too clever to not see the advantages this allowance would give him and Alfred only had to hope that Ivar did not plan to overstep them. Alfred was taking this risk in order to try and further some sort of trust or friendship between them two of them. Eahlswith’s words still sat heavily in his mind, and Alfred knew that he had to do something to try and win Ivar’s loyalty, and denying Ivar’s request to train the soldiers would not have done that.

 

The marshy grass enveloped Alfred’s boots as he trudged over to Ivar’s side. The other man did not look as Alfred came to stand beside him at the gate. There was a wide gap between the two of them, one that did not make Alfred feel any safer.

 

 

“What do you think?” Alfred asked him. He had to narrow his eyes to watching the soldiers train, the sun feeling too warm and too bright for this time of day.

  

Ivar snorted, and tossed a hand in the direction of the field, “I think that its fucking shameful I wasn’t able to beat you the first time around.”

 

 Alfred understood what he meant, thinking back to the time of the war with the Great Heathen Army. The soldiers like this, disorganized and left to train with no strategy and no upper ground, were hardly a match against the Northmen. Alfred almost wished to remind Ivar that he _had_ been beating the Saxons before. Defeating them in almost every battle, killing three kings of Wessex along the way, and then another two in Northumbria and Kent. By all accounts, Ivar did defeat the Saxons in that war. At least he would have if it had not been for Alfred.

 

“You Northmen hardly have a match in open combat.” Alfred said to him, wondering why he felt the need to reassure Ivar. The sun had caused a sheen of sweat to coat Alfred's skin and he moved his hand across his shoulder to his neck, feeling too confined in his own skin suddenly. “If the war had been one man against the other, Wessex would hardly have stood a chance.”

 

Ivar had turned away from the training field to look at Alfred as he spoke. Ivar’s face was annoyed, a terse expression resting on his lips as he mounted a counter attack. Yet, his eyes drifted over to the hand Alfred held against his collar and that expression softened for a fractional moment. Alfred dropped the hand and turned his face away, and the softness on Ivar’s showed was gone. Setting his palms on the length of the fence, Alfred wraped his fingers around the splintering wood to keep from touching his own neck again or worse—reaching to touch Ivar.

 

“Depends who the man was.” Ivar admitted, voice rough, speaking like someone had forced the words out of him.

 

Alfred tilted his head to look at him, confused. He blinked as he remembered what he himself had just said about open combat and war and then mentally chastised himself for losing track of the conversation just because of an inconsequential look he saw on Ivar’s face.

 

He had tried very hard the last few days to not think too deeply on the night in the courtyard. To not think of Ivar and him speaking closely in the night, of the scent of ale and grass on Ivar, or the gentle turn of phrase when Ivar sent Alfred away. Of Ivar’s hand set against Alfred’s neck that he still wished he could reach towards again and touch.

 

Alfred cleared his throat and looked again at the training grounds. “They are good fighters—your men. Why aren’t you out there with them? You still fight in battle, I’ve heard my generals speak of you enough times to know it.”

 

This brought a smug sort of pleasure to Ivar’s face. He also had turned to watch the training, but now stood a little taller while doing so. “I’ve no desire to train with Christians. If I pick up a weapon against one, I intend to kill them.” Hearing this, Alfred rolled his eyes, but Ivar carried on, “Besides, my purposes are served just as well here. What of you? Will you not take up arms against my men?”

 

Alfred had no idea if Ivar meant this to be a provocation. It made Alfred bristle to hear it, a defensive feeling stirring in his chest, as Alfred pressed his lips together and watched one of his soldiers lose another fight with Alfhilda.

 

Ivar knew well enough why Alfred did not take up arms in battle. Alfred, very vividly, could remember them having a conversation about it ten years ago—it had been in the rain; the two of them under the roof of a tent, a sparking weapon in Ivar’s hand as he sat at a whetstone, and Alfred, who had been watching the heavy rain drops thinking of every regret held deep in his heart as he contemplated his oncoming death. Hearing, Ivar demand an answer to the question again now, after all these years, made Alfred angry, irrationally so. Why would have Ivar bothered to remember Alfred’s reasoning after ten years? And even if he had, why would he _not_ have used the reason as a taunt against Alfred’s person now?

  

“I have talents that are better applied elsewhere.” Alfred answered him stiffly, wishing he could relax the curve of his shoulders and let the words roll off him like drops of rain.

 

Ivar did not respond for a beat and Alfred stubbornly refused to turn his head and see what expression Ivar had. Instead, Alfred felt as Ivar rested his weight back against the fence and it shifted underhand, “Have you fought? Since then, I mean.”

 

The tension in Alfred’s shoulders grew larger. He curled his hands around the wooden fence and thought, what right did Ivar have to ask something like that? Even in Ivar’s tone, the question didn’t even sound like it was meant to be a taunt. The words were spoken like a conversation between old friends— _concerned friends_ —it boiled Alfred’s blood.

 

Alfred worked a phrase between his teeth, forcing it out of his lips, “You’re pretending to not know that I haven’t?”

  

This quieted Ivar again, and Alfred felt a hot sense of satisfaction at having called Ivar out on his game. Of course, Ivar knew that Alfred did not fight in the battles he waged. Ivar was too good of a strategist to not know something like that.

 

“And what will happen when you are finally bested in battle,” Ivar asked and the aggression lacing his words startled Alfred, who had become consumed in watching his soldiers. He felt the impulse to look Ivar’s way, but fought it. “And they take your castle and hold a knife to your throat? What do you plan to do then?”

 

And now Alfred did look at Ivar and he saw the uncompromising anger written across Ivar’s face that was directly targeted at Alfred.

  

Alfred almost took a step back to try and distance himself from the wrath that came so unexpectedly. He didn’t even have time to think through his answer before speaking, “Well, what could I do?”

  

Ivar’s bestial anger multiplied. He gripped the fence with one hand, which curled around the wood like he might splinter it. Whatever reply Ivar meant to give changed, and Alfred listened to the forced switch in tactic as Ivar asked, “And if they held a knife to that little wife of yours? Or your children?”

 

The chill that lashed against Alfred hit his bones. He grinded his teeth together, lips pressed in a hard line. Alfred stiffly turned to watch his soldiers again, ignoring the tension that held his limbs together. “I would never let that happen.”

  

Ivar scoffed, voice low and unkind, “What could you do? Trade your life for theirs again?”

 

“Perhaps,” Alfred answered stiffly, shoulders curling in defense as he pushed his nails into the soft wood. He did not want to talk about this anymore, especially if Ivar was planning on dredging up more of the past. “What does it matter to you? Wouldn’t our deaths serve you well?”

 

Ivar did not bother answering, but Alfred could hear the hiss of his breath as the other man walked to the gate of the fence and knocked one of his Northmen down and took up their blunted weapon.

 

Alfred’s own anger disappeared as he stood up straight, mouth almost calling out to tell him to stop before Ivar did what his words promised and kill one of Alfred’s men. Ivar, though, only shouted out the name of one of his own and the two of them began to spar. There was no mercy in the fight and before it could even truly start, Alfred turned and walked away from the training yard.

 

Alfred never begrudged a liar; not when the truth could hurt so much more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter! ill post another one soon. 
> 
> I'm planning on this fic being no more than 50k, btw


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

It was raining, which was not uncommon, but it did defeat Alfred’s plans for the day.

 

He had planned on riding up to his nearest base, a half days ride from the gates of the city, and consulting with a soldier there who had spotted outriders for the Danes a day’s past.

 

Doing so required better weather though, weather where the rough dirt path wouldn’t turn into mud, causing the horses to slide underfoot. Instead, the council decided that one of Alfred’s cousins would go in his place—his cousin, a distant one from his mother’s side whom Alfred never spoke to enough to feel any familial bond, was decidedly more expendable than Alfred, and could be away from Wessex for a while if the storm kept up.

 

It was frustrating, especially when Alfred had been so selfishly relieved to hear word from the military outpost asking for his council. Having spent the last few days in Wessex, stuck up in council meetings where he listened to arguments about the Northmen guests, or in the training yards where he heard shouting from the Northmen soldiers, or in his own halls where he heard arguments between his four guests and any Saxon who crossed their path. Alfred was overwhelmingly relieved to have been given the chance to escape any mention of his Northmen and stay the night over in the dingy military encampment going over potential defensive strategies to be used to ward off attacks.

 

Nature, or perhaps God, had other plans for Alfred though, and when the storm struck the night before and then persisted into the day, Cousin Leofric was sent to the war camp in his place, and Alfred was stuck inside the walls of his castle thinking back fondly to his childhood days in the marshes.

 

Though it was only afternoon, the sky was dark enough to be the oncoming night, save for the occasional flashes of lightning that reminded everyone what the earth looked like cast in light. The storm had many visiting the chapel that day, and while Alfred would normally ask his council to meet with him during these afternoon hours, the storm gave him the excuse to allow the men to find God in prayer rather than discuss their hatred of the Northmen.

 

As for Alfred, who declined Eahlswith’s invitation for afternoon worship, he sat in one of the large, abandoned halls, one foot tucked up on the wide windowsill, crown dangling in hand, as he looked out into the rain.

 

The hall he sat in was not normally empty. It lay just outside Alfred’s study and was used when the council met or when Alfred needed a more private room to address his generals and advisors rather than making an announcement in the great hall. Now, it was empty; lit with dim flickering candles by some servant who had come in some time in the morning and lit the wax and set a fire in the hearth.

 

The quiet, at least, allowed for Alfred to have some sort of peaceful contemplation, or at least relief from the past few days of insistent complaints of the Northmen, who were disturbing the servants, starting fights with the other soldiers, offending the nobles—the complaints did not end there. With the northmen having stayed in the halls for nearly a fortnight with no clear signs of diplomatic progress taking place, some of Alfred’s advisors were starting to say that perhaps Ivar and his men were acting as spies on behalf of the Danes, gathering information, spotting weaknesses, readying for an attack. All Alfred wanted now was a moments reprieve from any thought towards war, politics, or the Northmen.

 

The door into the hall opened with a creak and Alfred shut his eyes, letting out a slow breath, wondering if he should request the newcomer to go away, or if Alfred should set the crown back on his head and return to his place as king. Opening his eyes, Alfred turned his head and held in a startled breath as he saw a figure he did not expect to see. A northmen—Alfhilda to be exact.

 

She was wearing the same garb she always chose, which still made some of those in Alfred’s court uncomfortable, but after having been through several wars with the Northmen and after being a captive in the Heathen camp, Alfred was unbothered. Why Alfhilda was here was another matter.

 

The guard who accompanied her trailed not far behind. He stepped forward as he saw Alfred, who had gone to stand and now placed his crown back on his head. The guard bowed. “Your majesty, the Northwoman has been asking for your council.”

 

The guard would have known Alfhilda’s name, and it seemed more of a slight to the woman to have not used it. Alfred would have to address that later, but for now, he merely frowned, unsure what Alfhilda, who, as far as Alfred was aware, did not speak their language, wanted with him.

 

“Of course,” Alfred answered unhappily, he walked across the room to stand in front of Alfhilda, who was nearly at height with him, and hear her business. “What is it you wished to speak about?”

 

Alfhilda answered in a harshly spoken Nordic tongue. Parts of it Alfred caught, but not nearly enough for Alfred to gauge full meaning, though the words Alfred did catch were _king, fool, war,_ and then, naturally, _Ivar._

 

“She would not tell me what she wished to say, Your majesty.” The soldier stepped forward, glaring at the woman. “I went to find the translator, but she would not speak for him either. She kept saying your name.”

 

Alfred’s frown deepened. His temporary peace was now disrupted and Alfred was now determined to find an end to this problem. Could it be that the Northmen knew that Alfred spoke some of their language and this message was meant to secretly reveal something to him? If so, Ivar greatly overestimated Alfred’s ability to speak their Nordic tongue.

 

“Well,” Alfred ran his hand up his jaw and rubbed it for a moment as he thought. He let his hand fall, thought longingly for his spot by the window, “If she cannot tell me what she is trying to say, perhaps she can show me.”

 

“Your majesty—"

 

Alfred held up a hand to silence the guard, and Alfhilda grinned, clearly haven gotten what she wanted. Alfred could feel that he had very much just entered a game, and despite his exhaustion, he was determined to see the end of it.

 

Alfhilda moved towards the door, waiting for Alfred to follow and so he did. With the guard walking behind them, Alfhilda led Alfred across the castle. They took a long winding path and near the end of it, Alfred figured where they were going.

 

“You are taking me to Ivar?” Alfred asked, displeased as they entered the wing of the castle where Alfred was housing his guests. It was a little unceremonious for the _king_ to be taken to see a _guest_ , but it very much felt like the sort of petty thing Ivar would request.

 

Alfhilda gave a toothy smirk as confirmation and Alfred merely gave a heavy sigh and turned to the guard who still followed, “I’ve nothing to fear. Whatever they require they’d clearly prefer it done in secret. You may wait outside the door.”

 

“Your _majesty_ —”

 

Alfred ignored the disapproving lilt of the guard, the same disapproval that his council had sounded when they heard that Alfred had been speaking to Ivar without a guard present before, the same disapproval Ivar had when he found out the same.

 

Alfred did not wait for more disapproval. He started to walk ahead of Alfhilda, already setting his hand against the door to the room he knew to be Ivar’s and raising an eyebrow at the woman as to ask if there were any other tedious steps to this game Ivar was playing before Alfred would be allowed to go inside. She grinned again, different this time. Still predatory, but now with a sort of satisfactory respect, as if Alfred was doing something unexpected that she approved of greatly. Alfred did not know what to take from that, and with his own frown still very much present, he pushed open the door to Ivar’s chambers and stepped inside.

 

It was dimly lit, but these guests chamber so often were. They relied on the sunlight from the wide windows in the room to provide light, but with the storm, only candles could be relied upon to cast sight.

 

Besides the darkness, the room, for the majority, looked unused. This was merely the antechamber to the bedroom, but it seemed like no one had used it since the servants had come through a fortnight ago to prepare it. The exception to this, of course, was the center of the room where, Ivar, Olaf, and Knute all stood around an array of papers and maps set on a dining table.

 

They looked up when Alfred stepped inside and frowned.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ivar spoke first, setting whatever paper he’d been holding down on the table as he stared at Alfred and then redirected his glare over Alfred’s shoulder to Alfhilda.

 

Alfred faltered, feeling the uncomfortable weight of being present somewhere that he was unwanted. It reminded Alfred of when he’d first been crowned king during the war, and the whole council looked at him like he was just some young bastard boy who’d taken the rightful place of a real king. Shaking such feelings, which Alfred had long ago learned to outgrow, he turned to look at Alfhilda, as to demand why she’d brought him here, only to see her toothy smirk again. Alfred turned back to Ivar and took in a slow, tired breath before answering.

 

“Your woman, Alfhilda, came to me—”

 

“I can fucking see that,” Ivar spoke over Alfred, still glaring at the Northwoman, and now addressing her, said, “I told you to find someone we can fucking trust, not the damned king.”

 

That surprisingly stung. It was not quite a slap in the face, but it almost burned like one. It was not as if Alfred didn’t know that Ivar didn’t trust him, surely, they both had said as much to each other directly before, but hearing it said so flippantly in the crowded room was different. Whatever hurt Alfred felt from it, he tried to replace with indignation.

 

“What exactly is being discussed in my halls that I’m not suited well enough to hear?” Alfred used the voice he took in council meetings. The one that reminded him of his father and grandfather and made him feel the most like a privileged king. During long days in council meetings, when Alfred would return to his chambers, Eahlswith would say that Alfred forgets to speak like a man when his crown is no longer needed. She would say it did not suit him, but Alfred thought it suited a king.

 

Ivar looked up, the annoyance that had been there for Alfhilda gone in a moment. His brow creased and then his mouth twisted and suddenly, Ivar looked annoyed at Alfred instead. “Don’t be an idiot, I’m not fucking planning against you in your own hall. Just get over here.”

 

Ivar jerked his hand roughly at Alfred, who kept up his frown, but walked over to the table the others stood around with minimal hesitation. He looked back at Alfhilda once, who was following him, clearly pleased with herself.

 

Alfred took a spot at the table beside Ivar. Ivar pushed Olaf aside to make the room, and Alfred only belatedly wondered if he pushed Olaf aside instead of Knute, because Olaf had been standing at Ivar’s right side, the side Alfred heard best out of. It was a foolish detail to notice and Alfred dismissed the thought immediately. 

 

“I told Alfhilda to get someone you could trust to speak to me,” Ivar explained gruffly, “I thought she’d get some of those old men you get your advice from, or that cunt who oversees the training. I didn’t think she’d go get you.”

 

Alfhilda stood opposite of Ivar and glared, saying something in Norse. _I couldn’t find anyone else, arse._

 

Alfred thought over her answer and at least it made sense. Most of Alfred’s council would be in the chapel, where Alfhilda must not have thought to look, and then the general Ivar spoke of would have gone to the military encampment with Alfred’s cousin that morning.

 

Ivar rolled his eyes, “Sure, you fucking couldn’t.” he then looked up at Alfred and stated dismissively, “She says she didn’t see anyone else to tell.”

 

Alfred hesitated. At least he had his confirmation that Ivar still did not know Alfred spoke some Norse. Alfred wondered if this was still best to keep a secret, or if he should let Ivar and the others know that he spoke their language for more expedient communication.

 

“The majority of my council would have taken to the chapel for prayer,” Alfred said, deciding to keep it secret.

 

Ivar rolled his eyes, muttering _Christians_ under his breath. He picked up the letter he’d been holding before and handed it to Alfred. It was written in a runic language that Alfred knew was used by the Danes, but one that Alfred had little grasp over the meaning.

 

“My camp received it this morning,” Ivar explained, referencing the small Northmen camp that was still occupied outside Alfred’s gates. “It is from the Danish commander Guthrum. He writes to me saying that his reinforcements will not reach my camp for another two months time.”

 

The estimated time for the Dane’s to reach Wessex and attack had been less than half that. There was no reason that such travel time would be extended another month, not one that Alfred could anticipate. Alfred focused on this and all the other questions that now needed to be addressed.

 

“Why would Guthrum tell you this?” Alfred needed to know that he could actually trust this information, because it seemed like an impossible thing to believe.  

 

Ivar scoffed, “Because I would need to know it. Do you not know how war works?”

 

Olaf chuckled under his breath, but Ivar ignored him.

 

“Yes, I understand how war works, Ivar.” Alfred set the letter back on the table, not in the mood to be treated like the fool, “That’s why I find it hard to believe that a man as smart as Guthrum would tell you his strategic movings when you are still a guest in my halls.” Alfred also found it hard to believe that Ivar would be telling Alfred the truth when they were still formally enemies in war.

 

Ivar face went cold. Alfred could see his jaw clenched tightly, hands tensed like they were trying not to curl into fists. In the moments that Ivar did not answer, Alfred looked around the table at his counterparts. Knute had a displeased expression, Olaf’s even greater, and Alfhilda merely looked amused by all of this.

 

“Does,” Alfred paused, a cautious frown working on his lips, “Do the Danes not know that you’ve been a guest in my halls?”

 

It wasn’t that keeping it a secret wouldn’t have made sense from Ivar’s perspective. It made perfect sense that Ivar would not want the Danes to know that he was a guest of the Saxon king, especially as them knowing would probably have put Ivar in a situation where the Danes would be suspicious that Ivar would betray them. The thing that Alfred was still caught on was that Ivar staying as a guest of Alfred’s was only suspicious if Ivar had any intentions of betraying the Danes at all. And until that moment, Alfred had no reason not to think that Ivar wasn't planning on returning to his camp and rejoining the Danes in the war as soon as they arrived from Mercia. There was no reason Ivar wouldn’t return to war against Alfred the moment the opportunity arrived.

 

“Of course, they don’t fucking know.” Ivar put his head up, glaring at everyone in his vicinity, aggravation rolling off him in waves, yet directed at no single person more than anyone else. Perhaps this was a point of descent among the others. Ivar said this like it was the obvious answer and Alfred was a fool to think he would have done anything else, but it was the tension in Ivar’s posture that told Alfred otherwise. “Why would I want the Danes to know that I had agreed to stay here? They would not trust me if they did.”

 

That was not true. The Danes made moves towards peace before only for it to be a deceitful trick. If Ivar told them that his agreeing to stay with Alfred was the same sort of trick, they would have no reason not to trust him, or even support him in such a choice.

 

Alfred stepped back from the table. He felt far too overwhelmed in thought for a moment, in the crosshairs of revelation and doubt. He needed space to think.

 

If Alfred was understanding things right, and he truly believed he was, because Ivar was acting too defensive for Alfred to be wrong, then Ivar needed no convincing to be Alfred’s ally, because he already was his ally.

 

Alfred let out a slow breath and stood still. “Alright.” He turned to face the others again, shifting his feet under him and thinking, “Alright, so why would the Danes be two months from returning to Wessex? I’ve information that would lead me to believe that they should be here in half that.”

 

Olaf said something to Ivar who only grimaced. He had turned so his back rested on the lip of the table so that he faced Alfred. Ivar crossed his powerful arms, and looked as if he was still deciding how much Alfred already knew or he was deciding how much he wanted Alfred to know. Perhaps this ally ship was still tentative then. “Sickness struck them in the winter. They had to reconvene during that time, get enough healthy people together to fortify their ships and sail back to Jutland. Guthrum went back with the returning force to try and recruit more men from Aarus and Esbjerg to bring back for the spring. The last of the ships going there left this morning. It will take two months for them to get a decent force together and whatever supplies needed for the settlers who were hit hardest by the winter. Maybe less.”

 

Alfred cursed under his breath. His generals should have known about this before. His men in Mercia reported nothing of this sickness or that the Danes looked to be preparing to make travel back to their home. Alfred should have known—he should have been told at least about some of this. This was why he hadn’t won the war with the Danes yet, because Alfred was dealing with incompetent men who required him to stay behind these stone walls of Wessex when Alfred and his army would have been better off if Alfred could have been in the field able to learn this sort of information himself.

 

Alfred was lost in thought—lost in plans, when he finally looked up and said, “Can I trust this information?”

 

“You still feel fucking doubt?” This was spat out by Olaf, who started to prowl towards Alfred, but was stopped by Ivar’s hand, which had abruptly reached out and pushed against Olaf's chest.

 

Ivar’s eyes did not waver from Alfred’s, intense and wickedly blue like the heart of a flame, “Yes.” He said the single word and Alfred nodded.

 

“Then something must be done.” Alfred broke the contact and started walking towards the door, “This gives me an advantage, but not for long. I must call my council together at once to go over this.”

 

Alfred moved unthinkingly, focus so concentrated on his immediate plans that it was not until he reached the door and held his hand over it that he stopped. He wondered what sacrifice Ivar had made to tell Alfred this, to have betrayed the Danes, his allies, in order to side with a king whom he’d already gone to war with. It was a move that didn’t have any logic Alfred could track, it didn’t have any motivation Alfred could explain. Alfred hadn’t offered Ivar anything yet—they hadn’t agreed to anything, so why was Ivar helping the Saxons at all?

 

What Alfred said next lacked the same sort of logical thread. Alfred paused and turned and his eyes met Ivar’s who had yet to look away from Alfred the entire time. “Ivar would you stand present at the meeting? I believe that my council should hear this news from its source.” Alfred paused and continued, “I believe your insight on the matter would be invaluable.”

 

The words didn’t satisfy what Alfred wished to say, but it was the closest translation he could put his mind to.

 

Ivar’s face betrayed nothing of the inner workings of his mind. Alfred couldn’t tell if the request satisfied Ivar, made him feel pleased, frustrated him, angered him, brought relief, or if Ivar felt entirely indifferent to the request. Alfred wished he could hide his emotions so well. He thought this as he waited for the impossible moment to end, and Alfred hoped that Ivar would not say no to the offer and end all the nagging feelings clawing at his throat.

 

Ivar shrugged one shoulder, impossibly indifferent, and gave a single nod of his head.

 

“Good, we should move then.” Alfred waited for Ivar to make it to the door and then continued to speak as he opened it, “I will send someone ahead of us to gather the council. We will need to hear what they have to say on this matter.”

 

“What about us?” Olaf stood up and asked with outright aggression.

 

Alfred stepped aside, waiting outside the room in the hall, allowing for Ivar to answer his own man. Ivar had his back to Alfred, still in the doorway, whatever he did or said, was unheard, and when he came into the hall to join Alfred they did not speak.

 

The guard who still waited in the hall was sent to the chapel to hunt down the other council members and was then instructed to find General Oswine, who Alfred trusted the opinion of fairly well in terms of strategy. Ivar and him would walk ahead of the rest and return to the council room Alfred had been occupying before and ready their terms of delivering this news.

 

“I must warn you,” Alfred hadn’t really spared a thought to anything, but this intel about the Danes. It had been a while since an advantage such as this had made itself known. “My council will not believe your information. They’ll say that you fabricated the letter or that you are working with the Danes to lead us into a trap.”

 

Ivar, who’d been doing a competent job at keeping with Alfred’s pace sneered, “If they do not believe me that is their own fault. I’m not forcing you to do anything with the information I’ve told you about Guthrum. Take it or don’t.”

 

Alfred wished Ivar could see that ruling the court of Wessex was very different than how ruler ship worked in the North. Things were much more complicated and people weren’t nearly as pragmatic as Ivar seemed to expect them to be. Often times, Alfred wished they could be more practical too.

 

Alfred decided not to address Ivar’s comment at the current moment, “I will back you when you tell them. Though, I doubt that will count for much. In these matters they seem to think I have a bias,” Alfred shook his head, mouth tinged with residual frustration, “It does not matter. Convincing them to take action on this news will be an uphill battle, though we have the side of common reason, I believe. Perhaps that will prove an aid for once.”

 

Ivar lifted a brow, tilting his head towards Alfred, which caused Alfred to slow down minimally.

 

“We?” he asked.

 

Alfred retraced his thoughts, furrowing his brow. “Yes, I—I suppose we are on the same side. Aren’t we? We want the same thing?”

 

Ivar scoffed and shook his head as he walked ahead of Alfred, “We do not want the same thing.”

 

“Well,” Alfred picked up his pace so that they were side by side again, nearing the council chambers, “Our partnership can be mutually beneficial. You did give me the information about the Danes; clearly, you see that there is some advantage for you siding with us over them.”

 

Ivar shifted a shoulder, jaw working as he looked ahead, “I’ve nothing to gain with siding with the Danes. I don’t give a fuck about their war with you. They aren’t my people. I have Dublin, I have my own kingdom now, I don’t need yours.”

 

They had reached the outer doors of the council room. Alfred set one hand against the hard oak, the other hanging uselessly at his side. The halls were still empty, the rain was still falling.

 

“Then why—” If Eahlswith was here she would tell Alfred that he’d gain more and risk losing nothing if he could only keep his curiosity at bay. She said his need for knowledge, his need to prove his own thoughts right, was his great weakness. Alfred never learned to agree with this; his grandfather Ecebert said knowledge, especially knowledge over something incomprehensible, was the most valuable thing in the world. He also said it was the most dangerous thing. Ivar had always been incomprehensible to Alfred. “What do you have to gain from helping me?”

 

They still stood outside the closed doors of the council room. If the guard had made it to the chapel, most of the council members would be on their way to them now. Alfred should get in there before everyone else arrived, he should start planning a strategy, coming up with plans, have something ready so that when Ivar told them about the letter, Alfred could propose a plan of what to do with the next two months.

 

Yet, Alfred still stood with one hand at the door and the other at his side, unmoving and waiting and listening to the rain and the thunder outside his castle walls.

 

The look Ivar gave him now, body held tense, frustration suddenly obvious though it must have been building since Alfred first said _we_ , was as unfathomable as everything else about the man. All Alfred wished for now, was clarity—he wished Ivar could be as pragmatic as he expected everyone else to be, and that Alfred didn’t have to keep standing there, being kept guessing.

 

Ivar turned his head, jaw clenched, “Open the door.”

 

Alfred didn’t move, he did not think that he should. “If you expect me to trust the information you’ve given me, then I don’t think its unreasonable for me to expect you to tell me your motives.”

 

“I don’t expect anything.” Ivar growled, knocking into Alfred’s shoulder as he went ahead and pushed open the doors to the room himself. He lumbered past Alfred and went down on the first chair at the table. His legs must have been hurting after having walked at Alfred’s pace before and sitting would have been a relief.

 

Alfred wasn’t finished with their conversation, he followed Ivar inside the room and went to stand in front of him at the table, “You know that wasn’t an answer.” Alfred grimaced, “If we are to be allies then I need to know that I can trust you.”

 

“You do not trust me?” Ivar asked with a challenge in his words, almost mocking Alfred in the way he posed it, with eyes looking about the room as if his answer was already clear. Alfred would not have invited Ivar to this meeting if he did not trust him already.

 

Alfred pressed his lips together, he would try again, this time say something Ivar couldn’t object to. “If we are to be allies—”

 

“I do not want to be your ally.” Ivar stopped him, hardly before the word was even fully formed. Ivar tipped his head up at Alfred, and though Alfred had a superior advantage in their current position, it felt as if though Ivar was the one talking down to him.

 

Alfred huffed a frustrated breath. He knew Ivar was being difficult, he knew the other man was playing a game, he knew that he was trying to trap Alfred into a particular answer, or leave him purposefully in the dark. Whatever accommodating spirit that Ivar felt when he told Alfred about the Danes was gone now.

 

“Perhaps its different then for your people,” Alfred could tell that his tone was terse, a frustrated parent speaking to a particularly difficult child; Alfred could tell that this is what he must have sounded like because it brought an amused smirk to Ivar’s face, “But in Wessex, when one man helps another in matters of war and governance, its typically considered an allyship. Typically done in a beneficial exchange for both parties.”

 

“But I don't want anything.” Ivar shrugged his shoulders, lifting his palms indifferently, and now he wasn’t even pretending to not enjoy frustrating Alfred.

 

Alfred pressed his lips into a thin line. “Typically.” This would get them nowhere—whatever Ivar’s reasoning was, it would remain privately his own for now, because at this moment Alfred had better things than to argue a moot point. “What does it matter, think what you want. The prior point still stands: my council will want some explanation as to why you are helping us, or why you’ve given us this information.”

 

Ivar slouched down in his chair, eyes noticeably tracking Alfred who was going to the shelf on the wall and pulling out a map and unrolling it on the table, doing his best to not look up and meet Ivar’s eyes or show any sign that he noticed them on him at all. Even so, Alfred could imagine how he looked, he could trace the image from memory. The rough lines of Ivar's face, where his cheekbones cut into skin and the hollow point where his eyes dug in and his mouth curved, would have looked rigid in the shadowed lighting as if sculpted from the dying embers of a fire. His blue eyes, unnaturally bright, would have been the only color seen, save for the tinted ash of the tattoos carved into Ivar's skin, and those eyes would have been trained fiercely, angrily, on Alfred.

Alfred knew little about the Northmen’s gods, but he thought that Ivar must have seemed to his people like one to them

 

Noticing this Ivar spoke, “I cannot tell if you’ve become slower since our ten years have passed, or if you are being willfully ignorant.”

 

This made Alfred look up, “Pardon me? I could say the same about you—”

 

“No, you could not.” Ivar’s voice was not teasing anymore. He had sat up in his seat, leaning forward as he watched Alfred, voice low and slow, “You know why I’ve given you this information.”

 

Alfred was uneasy. This, like anything that did not pertain to the new information about the Danes, did not need to be dwelled on right now. So, Alfred did not think about it. He would not think about it, because there were so many other things that were more important to think about, because Alfred was a king, because Alfred wouldn’t let what he _wanted_ and what he _ought_ to want become conflicted.

 

And even so, Alfred could not breathe voice to the dismissal that had lodged itself in his throat. He looked away and finished smoothing the map out on the table. When he had sorted that he went over to find another that would show the region of Mercia the Danes were last seen to camp.

 

Ivar scoffed though it sounded more like a growl. His voice dripped with disappointment as heavy as each drop of rain outside the walls, “You will not even acknowledge it then.”

 

“There is nothing to acknowledge.” Alfred kept his words empty, and his eyes focused on his work. His hands paused before pulling out a map. There wasn’t time for this, the council would be here any minute and Alfred was better off letting the subject end, but something persisted in his mind. “It is not as if you’ve said something worth acknowledging.”

 

Because Ivar hadn’t. He had left everything purposefully cryptic and vague, and Alfred would not pretend to ever know what Ivar was thinking, and he certainly was not going to claim to know so now. Whatever Ivar had now implied, maybe whatever he’d been implying since the first day they spoke, was just that: an implication. Alfred would not jeopardize himself for an implication—he would not waste time on an implication.

 

The chair Ivar sat as creaked, grating against the stone floor. With his back turned, Alfred could still hear the heavy drag of Ivar moving around the table to the place at the shelves Alfred stood. He still did not turn around.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Alfred felt his bones brace, but he still acted as if he hadn’t heard, thinking that someone else would step into the room and Ivar would be forced to put this all to rest.

 

“Don’t be a fucking coward. Look at me.” And now Ivar reached and grabbed Alfred’s shoulder and shoved him so that Alfred had to look.

 

Ivar was closer than Alfred thought, but still distant enough away that Alfred felt he was unreachable. There was no softness, no kindness, in Ivar’s face, just anger. Smarter men would be afraid, but that anger was too familiar to Alfred that he would feel fear. What he did feel was startled, and perhaps dread too, and maybe he was wrong, maybe he did feel fear, but not towards Ivar, but towards what Ivar might say.

 

Ivar’s anger drained, until it was just irritation. His hand was still gripped on Alfred’s shoulder, like a tether, gathering the cloth and bone, but like the anger, the strength in the grip seeped away to, until his hand fell and Alfred felt entirely cold.

 

Ivar shook his head, and whatever he wished to see in Alfred’s face when he demanded he turn around, he clearly did not find. His lip curled with disappointment. Ivar stepped back.

 

The door creaked and Alfred felt his heart stop. He cursed, setting a hand to grip the shelf as he saw General Oswine step into the room, followed by another two of Alfred’s council and a guard.

 

Alfred’s heart was still beating in his chest, but Ivar had already gone back to the table and taken one of the seats around it. The moment had passed, and Ivar now proved he would say nothing more on the matter. But whatever it had been, Ivar had acknowledged it. It had no name, no request, and no words to give it definition, but it had been acknowledged, and as the rest of the council came into the room and Alfred took his place at the table, he knew that whatever it was would not go away.

 

As Alfred called his meeting to order, he kept his eyes firmly away from Ivar and chose not to acknowledge his beating heart. Like everything else, choosing this did not mean it went away, but perhaps Alfred could forget. Perhaps Alfred could convince himself that he did not wish Ivar found what he wanted in Alfred’s eyes. Perhaps, like the storm over the earth, Alfred could keep his desires shrouded in darkness.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently it would have only taken the vikings 3 days to get from denmark to england. Europe is small. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for the comments on the last chapters!! I've got a very general idea with where this fic is heading, but as far as endings go, would yall want it to be more historical (e.i. heads may role) or are you okay with me rewriting history some (e.i. the bittersweet endings that i love) let me know if you have opinions!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert: i did not edit this chapter and you will definitely find grammatical and spelling mistakes inside.

 

 

The circular life of Alfred continued as the moment Ivar told the council about the letter from Guthrum of the Danes, Alfred did not get a moment where he was not confronted by a general or advisor who was trying to push his own opinions on what to do about the matter.

 

It was overbearing and entirely unhelpful. After over ten years as king, and defending Wessex during war for the majority of those, Alfred would hope that the court might hold some trust in him so that Alfred could contemplate his own opinion on the matter unhindered, but that was not so. After dealing with the council patiently for two days, the storms finally passed and at first opportunity Alfred escaped from the walls of the castle.

 

“This is my favorite.” Aethelweard held up a red painted toy ship that he held in his pale fist.

 

He held it up for Alfred to inspect, and he squinted his eyes in the sun and gave a nod. “It’s a fine vessel. Does she float?”

 

Aethelweard shrugged and made a whooshing noise as he pretended to sail the toy over the damp grass, crawling on his knees until he reached his sister and then sailed the ship around her giggling head.

 

The sun was finally out, and while Alfred knew that his absence would soon be noted and cause some big fuss in the castle, for these few moments he wanted to enjoy the sunlight with his children and lay out in the grassy gardens behind their housing and let himself be a better father than king. Such moments were always fleeting. They could not stay long, not when Alfred’s responsibilities were as great as they were, but with all the talks of war and strategy, Alfred’s mind kept going back to his father. Aethelwulf had died when Alfred was still young, and the memories he had with his father, those unhindered by the brutality of war, were most precious to Alfred and he wanted his children to have memories like that too.

 

“Mother visited us the day before,” Edward walked over in the grass and sat beside Alfred. The sun had made his cheeks burnt and red, and after the winter spent indoors the color made the boy look much healthier and young. “She said you couldn’t come. She said it was about the war.”  
  
Alfred eased his legs to lay in front of him and rested back on his palms. He tried not to betray his own frustration, “She shouldn’t have told you that. You and your siblings are too young to think about war.”

 

Edward shook his head, “I want to know. Shouldn’t I know? If I’m to be king—”

 

“Pray that it will be many more years before it comes to that.” For Edward’s sake, Alfred hoped it would be.

 

Edward tilted his head down and pulled his arms around his knees, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

Alfred let out a long breath, feeling the fresh air leave his lungs. He wished to lie back on the grass and feel his body sink below—to join the rocks, and bones, and worms—and to, for a moment, exist in a place where being King mattered to no one.

 

He set a hand on his son’s shoulder and pulled him over to his side, rustling his hair affectionately. “I know, I know. I’m not angry at you, I just…don’t be so eager to be king. It is more than what your tutors make it to be. It is not a reward, but a responsibility.”

 

“I like responsibility.” Edward insisted, “I’m responsible for Aethelweard and Aethelflaed, and for my studies.”

 

Alfred wondered if this is how Aethelred thought when he was still alive. Alfred hadn’t ever thought he would be king, his childhood must have been very different from a first born son who was born into the responsibility and knowledge that they would rule over Wessex one day.

 

When Alfred voiced no reply, just tilted his head back into the sun, Edward stood up and walked over to his brother and picked up another of the toys their maid brought out there and the two began to play.

 

The noise of their laughter and the gentle hum of nature eased Alfred’s mind and allowed it to go blissfully blank. The warmth of the sun chased away and trace of cold in his bones. Always though, in the back of Alfred’s mind, he still contemplated what should be done in these two months the Danes were guaranteed not to attack. The general opinion was that Alfred should order a bolstering of the army and conscript the villages to send me able bodied men to take arms, a tactic which should supply overwhelming force towards the Danes when they returned to Wessex. Along with that there were talks of building a wall around the city, damning up the rivers to keep the Dane’s ships out, or attacking the Danish settlements now so that when they returned they’d come back to depleted resources.

 

Some of the ideas were good, but it was not enough. Alfred had tried those tactics before and nothing had given them a significant enough advantage to turn the Danes away for good. Alfred was not interested in temporary solutions, but permanent ones.

 

“I’m taking your ship!” Aethelweard laughed as he held to ships in hand and blocked Edward who was trying to come up their pretend river beside where their sister picked at the little flowers in the grass. “This river is mine, you can’t come up it.”

 

“Well, then I’m going to go around your river.” Edward told him, taking his own boat and letting it fly over the grass and to the other side.

 

Alfred watched closely as Aethelweard tried to hold another two boats in hand, his toy soldiers precariously stacked atop them. “You can’t do that!”

 

“Well, you can’t own the whole river.”

 

“I can too. You’re supposed to be the Mercians—they don’t get ships.” Aethelweard argued firmly, clearly getting frustrated that Edward was not playing by the rules.

 

“Wait,” Alfred stood up and walked over to them, crouching down in the grass and holding out his hand for Aethelweard’s boat. His son hesitated before relinquishing it and Alfred turned it over in hand. “Why couldn’t the Mercians have ships?” Alfred asked to himself.

 

The boys looked at each other, and Edward spoke, “The Mercians get the castles, but the Danes get the ships. That’s how our game works.”

 

Alfred nodded, still holding the ship, “And which would be better?”

 

The boys looked to another again, silently arguing with one another until Edward answered, “It depends. Sometimes I win and sometimes Aethelweard does. When we start the game on land, I usually do…”

 

“That’s brilliant.” Alfred muttered, wrapping the toy in his closed hand, “I’m such a fool, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

 

Saying this, Alfred bent to kiss his son’s heads and then that of his daughter before calling the nurse back over to watch them. Alfred ran across the field back to the castle, a solution finally found.

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t want to make my ships to be like the Viking’s,” Alfred said, as he stood before the council. He was still half exhausted, and Aethelweard’s toy boat was still in hand. He felt mad, he felt excited. “I want to make them better.”

 

A navy. The first navy Wessex has ever built. That was Alfred’s plan to beat the Danes.

 

The room stood still as Alfred walked around the council table, and set the toy down, and then continued his point, “This Navy needs to outrank all others like it. Look what the Franks did after the Northmen attacked them only a single time. They built a Navy, built damns over the waterways, fortified the walls of Paris, and that was only after one attack.” Alfred felt like a fool for never thinking of this before, “How many attacks against the Northmen have we face?”

 

“Your Grace,” a council member inturupted hesitantly, “Frankia’s borders are much different than ours. The two places cannot be compared—Paris, is much more a fortress than a city—”

 

“Then we shall make Wessex a fortress too.” Alfred was not yet certain how, but even as he spoke he was already creating a picture in his mind, envisioning Edward and Aethelweard’s toy wooden boats and soldiers lined up around his kingdom.

 

Someone scoffed, “All of Wessex? Even if that was possible, what of your other regencies? Must we forget your wife’s people in Mercia or your mother’s claimed land in Northumbria?”

 

“I have not forgotten them.” Alfred frowned, he had now moved to the front of the table. He set one hand on the wood as he leaned forward to look at the map spread out in front of them. Defending Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria separately against the Danes would not be possible. His council was right when they said that Alfred’s kingdom was not like Paris. Paris was confined, an island in the middle of a nation, a force controlled by one emperor, one people, one army. “I don’t plan on leaving any of my people unprotected. Once we’ve forced the Danes out to sea they will return to see an army to rival their own and a united Western front—A united Wessex.”

 

 

The end of Alfred’s speech was met with lack luster support from the council, and with it also came the slow conclusion of Alfred’s dwindling enthusiasm. He still held strong with his belief that Wessex needed to build a navy, but the council offered up reasonable enough objections that Alfred knew he would have to come up with a more suitable plan of action to sway them.

 

There was some tepid support at least. A Mercian noble, a cousin of Eahlswith, agreed to consult the castles carpenter to come up with a design for a naval ship. What they came back with was flawed, so clearly flawed that even Alfred could see that it would never rival the Danes’ ships that they hoped to thwart. Alfred knew that shipwrights were hard to come by in Wessex, especially when no ship like the one’s Alfred planned for had ever been build, but still. He was now growing frustrated and withdrawn—more so than he might normally be since Alfred was doing his best to avoid Eahlswith or his children who he knew would pick up on his foul mood and make it a point to try and change it. Alfred did not need anyone to try and change his mood, not until he had come up with a solution that would have his plan see success.

 

This meant that Alfred stayed more or less confined to his study, seeing consultations with the different shipwrights Eahlswith’s cousin brought his way, or taking meetings with the castle’s carpenters to try and explain his vision for the navy, or consulting with units of the council who Alfred still tried to sway. Such things were wasting the days though, and Alfred had less time than he’d have liked to come to a decision.

 

 

“Why do you even bother with them?” Ivar had stayed behind after the rest of the council left Alfred’s study and now sat hunched over Alfred’s table studying something.

 

It was not often that Ivar came to one of the council meetings, this was partly because the council still did not trust Ivar, and then another part of it was that after nearly a week had passed since Ivar had told them about the Danes, Ivar had gone out to his encampment outside of Wessex to consult with his people who still settled there. Ivar had come back to the castle the night before, or at least Alfred had been informed that he had come back, it was not until Ivar was in Alfred’s council meeting that morning that he knew for sure.

 

Unfortunately, the meeting had been filled with no talk of Alfred’s navy, and completely filled with arguments over whether or not a defensive wall should be built around Wessex, and so Alfred had little time to feel any relief that Ivar had not disappeared from Alfred’s court and gone on a ship back to Dublin, like Alfred thought when he heard Ivar had left the halls.

 

Part of Alfred wondered if he should be relieved that Ivar left, and why wouldn't Ivar leave? Alfred clearly couldn’t give Ivar what he wanted and if Ivar was not here to be Wessex’s ally or fight in the war, then what was left for him? If Ivar was gone, permanently, from Alfred’s court it would be a good thing. It would eliminate problems and distractions and yet, Alfred was relieved when he saw Ivar among his council that morning, even if no one else felt the same. Maybe that was sin, selfishness; it certainly felt like it was.

 

 

Alfred looked over the news from Mercia, which had arrived confirming Ivar’s letter that the Danes had taken their boats out to harbor and left. He frowned while reading, only half focusing on answering Ivar. Relief or selfishness aside, Alfred still had to deal with his duties as king, which meant that Alfred did have to bother with his council despite Ivar’s disapproving tone.

 

“It is what kings do.” Alfred flipped the paper over and read what was written on the back, “It’s important to hear what others say on a matter, to learn from their wisdom.”

 

Ivar scoffed and Alfred glanced at him. He was holding something in his hand, rolling it over between his finger. Ivar looked up and caught Alfred’s gaze before he could look away, “But you do not care what they have to say. You already know what you want to do. Why are you trying to get their permission first, just do it? Aren’t you supposed to be king.”

 

Alfred narrowed his gaze at Ivar and looked back at the letter, “I’m supposed to be a good king. That means I listen to what my council has to say and I don’t make unpopular decisions unless I know that there is no other way. Do you not take council from anyone when you ruled Dublin?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred could see Ivar shrug, setting down whatever he had been holding in his hand. “I was not a king like you. I did not care for ruling, only the fighting. What you do holds no interest to me.”

 

“It holds no interest to anyone,” Alfred muttered, frustrated by the lack of details the Mercians had supplied in the letter. “That is why they make a king do it, that way no one else has to.”

 

Ivar gave a soft hum and Alfred looked up again. They had not spoken about their talk during the storm, or about what Alfred would not acknowledge. It had left a tension between them, but not one that Ivar had any plans on perusing. It seemed he was waiting for Alfred to do that, and so Ivar would be waiting a long time. Alfred was determined to pretend that both the storm, and their conversation had never happened. At some point, he would start to think that the whole thing was just a dream and it wouldn’t be breathed out loud until years later when Alfred and Eahlswith found themselves drunk again and Alfred’s lips turned loose.

 

Ivar asked then, “You have no interest in being King?”

 

Alfred shrugged his shoulder, going over to set the letter from Mercia out of the way, “It is not about being interested. This is my responsibility, it is my life. I see no other way of living.”

 

“You hate it then.”

 

Alfred dropped the letter and turned with some agitation, “I do not hate it. Its tedious at time, yes, and there are people who make it harder than it has to be, but I would not be king if I hated it.”

 

Ivar lifted a brow and gestured to the empty chair at the table beside him, “What would you be then?”

 

Alfred furrowed his brows. He went over to the chair beside Ivar’s and pulled it out and sat. He looked at what Ivar had been toying at before and reached out and took it. “If I was not king? I don’t know. A lord somewhere probably, perhaps an advisor in Aethelred’s court.”

 

The piece in Alfred’s hand belonged to a chess set. It was carved from wood and painted with black pitch so that it was smooth against the touch. Alfred rolled it between his fingertips starring down at it and suddenly filled with a feeling of loss. He set the piece down and pushed it away.

 

Ivar had been watching him. His face was drawn grim, a quiet mask of human guilt that looked foreign on Ivar. This did nothing to ease the feeling that rested Alfred’s chest and only served to make that grief feel so much more potent. It had been years since Alfred mourned his brother.

 

“I—” Ivar cut himself short and bowed his head.

 

Alfred could not remember if Ivar had ever stopped his words before, if he had ever doubted what he planned to say, or waivered in confidence and certainty. Doubt, like guilt, was foreign to men like Ivar—men who ruled in the realms of heedless actions and damned consequences. That had been the old Ivar though, the one Alfred knew from ten years past. The Ivar who had tasted from the cup of failure and regret.

 

Alfred saw that Ivar was planning to say something more, but he spoke before Ivar got the chance. “Whatever happened to your brother?”

 

Ivar blinked, taken aback. He leaned back in his chair, setting his palms on the wooden arms and paused. As powerful of a man as Ivar was—a man who could kill any man in combat, one who had conquered armies, who had killed kings—Ivar looked reticent now. He tilted his head to the side and reached towards the table as if wanting something to distract him, but as he did, his hand brushed against the chess piece and hovered there. Alfred watched, eyes gazing on how Ivar’s calloused hands, tattooed with ash and scarred in war, stayed still when it came in contact with the pitched wood, and Alfred wondered if they could be thinking the same thing.

 

“It is not the same piece.” Alfred leaned forward and pulled the chess piece, a knight, into his hand, and set it aside. Alfred then, without looking at Ivar, brushed the papers that crowded the table aside and pulled forward the old, checkered board that lay underneath it all. “How long has it been since you played?”

 

Like the other question, this took Ivar by surprise. His mouth opened, but it was another second before words came out. “I do not remember. We’ve a game like it in Kattegat, but…” he ended with a shrug and Alfred nodded.

 

“You remember though, how to play?” Alfred was already finding pieces in the clutter and setting them on the board. It had been a while since Alfred had played himself; the last time might have been with Edward or maybe with his attendant, Cenric. Neither were especially skilled players, though Edward improved after every game.

 

Ivar nodded, still unusually subdued, and so Alfred continued to set up the board and then moved it so that it sat between the two of them. Alfred chose the black pieces and gave the smooth birch set to Ivar. The other man was studying the board; subdued mood did nothing to lessen the intensity Ivar existed in. Ivar pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and when he let go it came back red and shining.

 

Alfred ducked his head as he looked at the board again, pausing before making the first move, pushing his fourth pawn down a row. He sat back, waiting for Ivar to make his move.

 

Ivar moved his hand over the pieces, thoughtfulness creasing his brow. He moved a pawn forward, but hesitated before lifting his hand from the piece. “Hvitserik returned to Kattegat with the others after you were returned.” Ivar let the piece go and moved his hand away; he still studied the board.

 

Alfred had not expected Ivar to pick up the conversation, he tried not to let this surprise show as he moved another of his pawns, “You returned together then? I thought you were going back there to get away from them.”

 

It was strange talking about this at all. It felt as if it firmly belonged in the category of things best left forgotten. Those were things—conversations—that took place in the darkest nights when Alfred thought he was going to die, or it was the arguments Alfred and Ivar had in those few days leading up to his release. Arguments like the one where Ivar told Alfred that they were to escape together to Kattegat, where Ivar could escape the brother he almost murdered and Alfred could live past his execution day.

 

Ivar shrugged indifferently, but the motion looked forced, as did the expression on his face as he moved another chess piece. “I did not go back.”

 

“At all? Wasn’t it always your plan to return? To take back your father’s kingdom.”

 

Alfred had only ever heard parts of this plan during his time in the Northmen camp. He and Ivar never spoke to each other about it, but Alfred was a keen observer during those months and he’d heard discussions more than once about an usurper who had taken Kattegat from the Ragnarssons and who they planned to overthrow once they returned from Wessex.

 

As Alfred moved his next piece, Ivar spoke, “Hvitserik did that. I have heard he was successful, though it is my brother Ubbe who now rules there.”

 

Alfred looked up, “You have only heard? Have you not been back yourself?”

 

Ivar was contemplating his side of the board, he rested his hand on his chin, “No, I’ve been conquering Dublin.” He moved his rook, and looked up at Alfred, “I thought you had heard.”

 

Alfred grimaced and took his turn, “Why wouldn’t you have gone back? Ten years and you did not think to go see your brothers again—your home? In all that time, would they not have forgiven you?”

 

“No, they would not have.” And Ivar took one of Alfred’s pawns and set it on the table on his side. Again, he would not look at Alfred, just the board.

 

“Seeing as you have not gone back, I don’t see how you could know that.” Alfred took Ivar’s rook and it brought a thin frown on Ivar’s face.

 

Ivar hesitated as he chose his next move, still frowning and when he spoke he sounded irritable. “If they wished me back, they would know where they could find me.”

 

Alfred disagreed, “Considering you were the one—”

 

“What do you know of my brothers?” Ivar hissed, his words were warning. “Huh? What do you know of our parting? Nothing. I am not you and yours. My brothers do not mourn my loss, and I do not mourn theirs.”

 

The room lapsed into silence. It was thick and uncomfortable, and brought a cold flush to Alfred’s skin as he waited for Ivar to finish his move on the board. It continued like that for several moves, traded in silence. Ivar took one of Alfred’s knights, and Alfred took a bishop, and several pawns were lost as well until the board was sparse and the game reached a stalemate. Even then, Alfred hesitated before speaking, and it ended up being Ivar who broke the silence.

 

“I am better for it.” He sat back in his chair, contemplating what options he had left, voice steady and indifferent again, “I left and I had nothing to prove to anyone. I was hated by everyone around me and the only loyalty I gained was from my own prowess. I earned my kingdom—my own kingdom, not my father’s, not my brothers’.”

 

It was certainly impressive, if not sad and very lonely. Despite that though, Alfred was almost jealous. Ivar had freed himself from the world’s conception of him, he owed answers to no one, he had every choice in the world, and he only need to pick one. Alfred loved Wessex, he loved Eahlswith, he loved his children, but he had not chosen any of those things. The moment Alfred was given the crown of Wessex, his life was written for him, and Alfred’s only choice became what sort of king he would be. In his eleven years of rulership, he’d only strayed from this dictated path once.

 

Alfred moved his king. “You feel no regret then? In never going back?”

 

Ivar’s eyes were on him and they stayed there until Alfred finished his move and Ivar answered, “No, I would make the same choice now.”

 

Alfred saw Ivar’s queen exposed, and when it came to his turn again he moved for it. “That’s fortunate, but I am not surprised. You rarely make a decision you would warrant regret for.” Alfred moved his knight and took Ivar’s queen; a smile played on his lips as he took the piece, “Rarely.”

 

Ivar pursed his lips and sat back, eyes moving up from the board. His lip almost quirked, “Impressive, Little King.”

 

Alfred’s grin hadn’t waivered, but he rolled his eyes as he set the birch queen aside, “Ten years and you still use that name? You don’t think I’ve outgrown it now?”

 

Ivar shook his head, his hand held against his chin contemplatively as he let his eyes drag over Alfred once before looking back down at the board and considered his options. “No, I do not think you have.”

 

Part of Alfred thought he could continue pursuing the topic, but he saw what path it could lead down and thought it was best to end it. It too belonged to the unspoken world, and Alfred was foolish to mention it in the first place. All it did was bring up a nostalgic past, which brought a pleasant curl to Alfred’s stomach and heated the back of his collar. It was easy to be foolish with Ivar, too easy.

 

“I know that you will not answer, but I feel I should ask anyway,” Alfred settled back in his chair, seeing that Ivar would have to concede the game, having no moves left on the board that might gain him victory. Ivar too realized this, but was hesitant to give up just yet. Alfred licked his lips, wondering if he did not ask, if he would be happier for it. “What are your plans now? I know that you said you are no ally of Wessex, but…what does that mean? You’ve given us an advantage against the Danes, but I don’t think that when they return you will fight with us in the war, will you?”

 

Ivar did not answer. He still watched the board of the lost game, but his focus was on Alfred’s words. The muscles in his shoulders were tensed. When he spoke, his words were the same.

 

“No, I will not fight against the Danes.” Ivar was decisive in his words, he pushed the board away.

 

“Then you will leave?” Alfred had been expecting this, but it still came as a blow.

 

Ivar shifted in his chair before deciding to stand. He walked the length of the room, once, twice, and Alfred was now the one who couldn’t take their eyes away from the finished game of chess.

 

“I’m going to return to Dublin. What I will do after that, I do not know.” Ivar paused, and then turned toward Alfred, and all the way across the room, he was almost too far away to hear, “It will take a month or so for my business here to be finished.”

 

“Then you can continue staying here until then.” Alfred spoke rashly, only considering after how angry Eahlswith would be with him for it, but still not willing to take it back. Still, Alfred felt a need to provide cover and said, “You’ve done a great service to Wessex, you are always a guest here.”

 

Ivar scoffed, crossing his arms and watching Alfred, “I did not do it for Wessex.”

 

 _If that were true, then why are you leaving?_ “Regardless. You would be—you would be a valuable asset in the oncoming war.”

 

“I know I would be.” Ivar paused, his voice did not waiver in confidence, but the challenge already assumed a predetermined answer. “You would want me to stay then?”

 

 _Yes. No. I don’t know._ What did Alfred want? Alfred was meant to want nothing—isn’t that what being king was? As a king only wanted for the country, any wants of the man underneath the crown were not supposed to factor.

 

He looked at Ivar who’s expression already determined this. He knew well enough what Alfred’s answer would be. Ivar’s presence disrupted the soldiers, angered the nobles, and distracted the king. A warrior was only as good as the army behind him, and if Ivar were to fight for Wessex, then Wessex's army would not be at the form Alfred needed.

 

“Yes.” Alfred broke their stare, feeling ashamed at his answer, but not wishing for it to be shown.

 

“Why?” Ivar demanded, voice spoken low, a plea as much as an order.

 

Alfred only wished to say, _you know why_ , but that would be too close to admitting the truth. It would be too close to what they spoke about during the storm, it was too close to honesty, and Alfred was realizing that he was much more comfortable in the realm of false beliefs and half-truths.

 

Alfred looked up and tapped his fingers on the table as he twisted his lip between his teeth. “I want to build a navy.”

 

Ivar lifted a brow and crossed his arms again, “A navy?” he spat the word like it was alien to the tongue, yet he was thankfully unbothered by the change in topic, and perhaps because like the game of chess, he had accepted this loss.

 

“Yes, its foolish we don’t have one already. The Franks have a navy. They built one after a single attack from your people. Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria—we’ve had you as an enemy for decades and yet no one ever thought to build a navy.”

 

“You Christians are stupid, I agree.” Ivar shrugged.

 

 “Yes—well no, it—that is not the point.” Alfred shook his head, and he stood to grab something from his desk and bring it over to Ivar. “I want to build at least thirty ships in the next two months. I want the navy finished before the Danes come back.”

 

Ivar took a step back, “Thirty ships in two months?”

 

Alfred nodded, “Yes, that is the reaction the council gave me, though coming from you it is even more discouraging. It is possible, isn’t it?”

 

Ivar was actually thinking about it now. He grabbed the sketch of a ship, and held it up in the light, and frowned, “Thirty ships? Maybe. One’s that look like this? You are better off not making them at all.”

 

Alfred faltered into a laugh and nodded, “Good, I do not want them like that. That is what my carpenter drafted as a design, and I don’t care for it. No one has ever built a successful ship for war or defense here; no one knows what they are doing.”

 

“I can see that.” Ivar continued to study the print and his frown deepened, “This would not fit through your rivers here. It is too wide and too deep. It would hit the river bed and take in water, and that is if it could even stand to float when you put your armed men in there.”

 

“As I said, I am not committed to this design.” Alfred took the picture from Ivar and set it away, “What I’m committed to is the number. Time and time again we’ve reached a stalemate with the Danes in battle. When it comes to fighting in the open field our prowess is even. We have a strategic advantage, but in raw power, they win. If I were to overwhelm their forces when they come through the rivers—if we were to beat them before they even left their ships, then we could win.”

 

Ivar was unconvinced, and as Alfred’s voice took up excitement while speaking, Ivar looked uneasy. “You rely too much on the element of surprise.”

 

Alfred shook his head, “No, I do not. I don’t expect victory through this navy, only to deplete their numbers before they can even convene on land. We will meet them at sea, attack them at every river crossing along the way from Northumbria to Wessex. By the time the reach us here, they will be too weak to win on land and that is when I will defeat them.”

 

Ivar had been watching Alfred say this, and when Alfred finished Ivar finally came up with a response. “It is not entirely idiotic. But even if you were to build the ships, train your men to fight on water, and do so before the Danes came back, you would still need to actually know how to build a fucking ship that might rival theirs.”

 

“And that is what I want from you.” Alfred turned so now he spoke to Ivar directly, “You know how to build the ships—or at least know enough to explain it to my carpenter.”

 

Ivar tilted his head up, chin pointed to the light of the setting sun that was coming through the window. Their game of chess had lasted longer than Alfred realized, and the day was almost over. “This is what you want from me then? To build you your navy?”

 

The words were weighted. Alfred nodded, mouth dry, “Yes. That is—If you will not fight in battle for Wessex then this is what I want.”

 

And the answer came slow, but Ivar did nod, lips twisting in further contemplation. When he looked at Alfred, those eyes were heavy, tired, and came with no expectations. “You know I don’t give a fuck about Wessex. I’m not doing it for your fucking kingdom.”

 

“I—I know.” Alfred swallowed thickly, eyes looking past Ivar’s shoulder to the wall.

 

While neither of them had moved, they felt too close suddenly, as if in Alfred’s excitement over his plans of the navy, he had moved himself closer to Ivar’s orbit, and now he was left in a situation where if he moved back the motion would be noticed and marked as cowardice. It also felt like cowardice to not move—there was no answer, but to stay still and wait.

 

Ivar snorted, shifting so his arm almost brushed Alfred’s, “You know it, yet you won’t even say it out loud?” Ivar shook his head and when he moved back, it felt like strength. “Why would I build you your ships?”

 

Words became stuck in Alfred’s mouth, like too many lies were trying to escape at once. Alfred shut his mouth and grit his teeth, and when he opened them again, he said flippantly, though in truth, anger came out as well, “I don’t pretend to know why you choose to do anything. If you want something, just ask.”

 

And this was something Ivar considered. He tilted his head one way and then the other as he thought, until finally falling still and letting a playful expression grace his mouth, “Say my name.”

 

“Say your name—is that your condition?”

 

Ivar shrugged and gave Alfred no answer. “You said it before, a few nights ago. But you were angry and irritating and I did not get to enjoy its sound on your lips.”

 

Alfred’s face flushed red and his jaw clenched with a click. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or indignant, or other, much more complicated emotions that were no less bothersome. Primarily though, Alfred felt annoyed, and while if he had said Ivar’s name in passing before, it would have made no difference to him, but having to do it now, on the spot and by request, it felt like the word was just as much of a sin as it was a name.

 

“If you will not say it, that is fine,” Ivar was curling his mouth with disinterest, moving back as if ready to take his leave and drop the matter of this and the navy entirely, “I does not matter to me either way—”

 

“ _Ivar_.” Alfred clenched his jaw and glared out from under his hooded gaze.

 

Ivar went still, locked on the word in a manner that Alfred found egoistic and far too telling. It made Alfred feel powerful too, in way that he had not expected to be the outcome of what surely was meant to be more humiliating than anything else. It was the sort of power that a king should not feel, it was the sort of power that corrupts.

 

Alfred wanted to say the name again, wanted to repeat several times over, because he hadn’t realized how long he had been forcing the word to be unsaid and what a relief it was not to have to avoid it.

 

Ivar’s face flitted from one emotion to the next, ending on hungry intensity, “Say it again.”

 

Alfred closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and then opened them as he took a step back, freeing himself from the gravitation between them. “Is that your condition?”

 

It darkened Ivar’s expression for things to be brought back to the business of deals and navies, but that darkness was pushed back and Ivar shook his head, “No. I do not know what that will be yet.”

 

Alfred considered this, considered what it meant, because it very much felt like Alfred was entering a deal he did not know the consequences for yet. It was rash, it was foolish, and while it was not Alfred’s only choice, it was still his best option.

 

“Tell me when you do. Until then I will arrange for you to meet with our carpenter. Whatever needs to be prepared you can communicate it to him and it will be done.”

 

Ivar tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he contemplated this new offer. While he had been teasing before, Ivar was now considering the offer very carefully. Maybe he was considering what a fool Alfred was to make promises that he couldn’t possibly have understood the consequences of, or maybe he was considering how unwise it would be to enter into this deal with Wessex, which might garner anger from both his own Northmen and the soon to be returning Danes. The choice offered a myriad of consequences to both parties, to both Ivar and Alfred. Whether if the outcomes outweighed the risks was irrelevant. Only a fool would have posed the offer and only a fool would have taken it.

 

Ivar asked finally, “Is this what you want?”

 

He had asked the same question not many minutes ago, while there was intensity before, this almost sounded indifferent. Ivar wasn’t indifferent though, Alfred knew it, Ivar knew it too. This mattered to Ivar, it mattered that Ivar was doing something that would have helped Alfred, that would have pleased him—Alfred wished that Ivar wouldn’t care about those things, because it just made it all so much more… _complicated_.

 

_Why can’t he just hate me like he was always supposed to?_

 

Alfred nodded, “Yes. This is what I want.”

 

And as the breath left Alfred’s lips and he thought that while he might have wanted Ivar to stay and work with Wessex as an ally, he didn’t want it like this. He didn’t want Ivar to only help Alfred because he thought that it would earn him Alfred’s favor, or just get him whatever his conditions entailed. Alfred wanted too much though, and it resulted in the sort of want that could not be explained or defined. Alfred did not know what he wanted, only that it was not this.

 

Alfred looked at Ivar, who watched his with such calm patience, with eyes who knew Alfred as more than a king and as more than a man; eyes that saw him and did not hold pity or the desire to control. Ivar did not want Alfred’s kingdom, he did not want Alfred’s crown, his life, or his death. Ivar just wanted Alfred, and that was the only reason Ivar agreed to this reckless deal.

 

 _Why can’t I just hate him too?_ Alfred thought as he turned his eyes away and walked across the room. But that, unfortunately, was not something Alfred wanted either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments on the last few chapters!!! I'm sorry i havent been responding to them. The end of the semester is coming up so everything is crazy, but you guys are amazing so thank you for all the support :))))


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i did hijack a line from game of thrones.

 

 

Celebrations often accompanied the making of mistakes.

 

When people felt success, confidence and other things of the like— they often fell into a false sense of security. Their guard was lowered and their inhabitations along with it. Therefore, it became easy to catch them in a mistake; to orchestrate a trap, a deception, to manipulate their weaknesses before they were even aware of what was going on.

 

This was a lesson Alfred was taught when he was very young.

 

His grandfather, King Ecebert, had once brought Alfred into his study and plied him with wine until Alfred became too sick to hold his stomach. The entire time, while Alfred had been thinking he and his grandfather had been drinking together, Ecebert had been imbibing only water. The lesson had been clear, and even more clear when Alfred awoke the next morning with an aching head: Let your enemies make their mistakes, let them celebrate, let them bask in confidence. If Alfred was to be a good king—a smart king—he would not make such mistakes.

 

The lesson came to relevance nearly a month after Ivar agreed to aid Alfred in building a navy. The first ten ships were finished and ready to take sail down the river and to the coast where they would serve as the first defense against the returning Danes. Ten ships, which compromised the current entirety of Wessex’s very first navy. Ten ships, which proved to Alfred’s council and the whole court of Wessex that Alfred’s plan to fight the Danes at sea was not as foolish as they first believed.

 

It was a cause of celebration, not just for Alfred, or Ivar, or the shipwrights and carpenters who helped build the ships, but a celebration for all of Wessex, who now were confident that the war with the Danes was soon to be over.

 

A feast was held in the Northmen’s honor, as without them, building the navy would not have been possible. All of Ivar’s camp was invited into the city's gates, though only those deemed most important attended the feast. It was a tirelessly planned affair, one that Alfred had little power in. A feast was something that ought to be done, not something Alfred took much interest or joy in throwing. To him, there were still twenty ships left to build before the navy was completed. If celebration was necessary, it should have been saved until after the remaining twenty ships were finished, but with excitement and confidence rising in Wessex, such celebrations were impossible to appease without formalities such as feasts.

 

Alfred held only water in his goblet. It was a habitual procedure for him. He saved the wine and drunkenness for his court, who could perhaps afford such indiscretions. Alfred preferred to keep his senses while in the company of snakes, especially now when there were much more dangerous creatures prowling the castle.

 

“They will expect you to give a speech.” Eahlswith whispered in Alfred’s right ear. She sat beside him at the high table, holding her own goblet, still full in her loose grip.

 

Alfred tried to keep the pleasant expression about his face. The spaces beside his eyes were creased, mouth stretched, it almost looked like a smile. “I’ve given a speech already. I’ve thanked the Northmen for their aid in building the ships, and I’ve thanked the carpenters for their cooperation in these tense times.”

 

And Alfred thanked the millers for providing the wood for the ships, promising to lessen their taxes in the future in exchange for their continued contributions, and Alfred thanked the Mercian lords for their support in the construction of the navy and for sending their conscript militia to the coast to help build the ramparts and fortifications along the mouth of the rivers there. Alfred thanked the Northumbrians for joining their cause, he thanked his aunt Blaeja and uncle Ecgberht for all the work they did to make that so. He thanked the Gaini who were in attendance, and his council and his generals and the clergy, and the servants, and everyone else who provided counsel to him and helped orchestrate the feast. Alfred thanked Eahlswith for standing beside him through it all, and he thanked God for blessing Wessex with this brilliant success. The only people left for Alfred to thank were the Danes for getting sick and returning to Jutland, or the devil for bringing them to Wessex in the first place.

 

Eahlswith smiled and thanked a lord who came to their table. He gave a low bow, his white beard touching the table, and then stood tall to promise his support to Alfred in the coming war. Alfred nodded his head and took a sip of his water. It had been a long night and Alfred was tired of thanking people for not being a hindrance in Alfred’s efforts to save their lives.

 

When the old lord left for his own table, Eahlswith leaned towards Alfred again, “I mean they expect you to say something about how the Northmen will be joining us in the war. All night you’ve said nothing about that. Your court is waiting for the confirmation that we will have Ivar’s army behind us in the coming fight.”

 

Again, Alfred took a drink from his goblet, this one slow and long, in order to buy time. Alfred had made inferences that the Northmen would not be joining them in the war, but it was just that, an inference. Alfred had yet to make the explicit statement that when all thirty ships were done, Ivar would take his Northmen and return to Dublin. Doing so would have caused Wessex’s new confidence to waiver, and more importantly, it would have distracted Alfred’s council from more important matters. Alfred’s cup was nearly empty when he set it down.

 

“I will not be telling the court that.” Alfred waived his servant over to bring him more water and turned back to Eahlswith and lowered his voice, “I don’t want to discuss this now.”

 

Eahlswith blinked. She turned her head away and looked out into the feast hall over towards where the Northmen party sat. They were easily the loudest people in the hall, and easily the most drunken. Any untoward behavior of theirs was forgotten for the night, because of how they aided Wessex in building the ships and training the soldiers to fight on those ships, but Alfred’s court still kept a wide berth around their table.

 

Drinks sloshed in the Vikings' hands as goblets were smacked together amidst drunken song and argument. Voices in the Nordic tongue carried, as a merry tune echoed in the crowded hall. It sounded familiar, like something Alfred might have heard when he was a captive in their camp long ago. It sounded like victory, like confidence, like words carried on the precipice of a cliff.

 

Those Northmen who did not drink walked along the other tables, some joining in conversations with Alfred’s court. A few fights had broken out, but none that were so bad that they weren’t quickly tempered and the evening was returned to celebration. Among them, Alfred could see Knute who lead a song, and Alfhilda who sat at a bench with a young Northumbrian noble who talked lowly in her ear. Then, of course, there was the face Eahlswith had been searching for in the crowd: Ivar. He sat at the head of the Northmen table looking pleasantly relaxed as he spoke with Olaf and an unfamiliar Northwomen.

 

Eahlswith’s smile faltered as she looked back at Alfred, “The king of Dublin will be aiding us in the coming war.”

 

It was not a question and was spoken in a tone, which despite the smile forced on Eahlswith’s face, was anything but pleasant.

 

Alfred returned the forced grin and reached for his still empty goblet of water. He titled it to his lips before finding it dry and set it down with uncalled for aggression. “I’ve never told you anything that would make you think that he would. I’ve said since the beginning that Ivar is not here to help Wessex.”

 

“No, but you were meant to convince him otherwise.” Eahlswith rebutted in her saccharine pleasant voice, watching as a man came to their table and when he left earshot, continued with a hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

 

“I didn’t think it needed telling.” Alfred hunched down in his chair and reaching a hand for a cup, bypassing his own empty goblet and grabbing Eahslwith’s instead. “I convinced Ivar to build our ships and help train the soldiers. That is more than I ever expected possible.” Eahlswith watched as Alfred took a long swallow of her wine. He set the cup down and pushed it away from his reach. When it was no longer near him he continued, “We do not need the Northmen when it comes time for war. With everything we’ve already gained, we’ll defeat the Danes without their help.”

p> 

Eahlswith pursed her lips together and grabbed the goblet and went back to holding it in her hand. She stared at it for a while before setting it down close to her right. She didn’t sound angry anymore when she spoke, “You should have told me. I like to know these things, Alfred. I like to think that you value my opinion when you need counsel.”

 

Alfred looked at her goblet of wine longingly. He was being awful again and he knew it. Alfred often thought he became awful towards Eahlswith when he was so focused in court politics and war that he forgot that Eahlswith had no more choice than Alfred did in the roles they played. The least he could do was not treat her like the bargaining piece for loyalty that her grandparents considered her as.

 

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve been unfair to you lately, and to the children. I should never have been a husband or father. I don’t excel in either of those things. I do value your opinion though, Eahlswith, I just…”

 

“It’s fine.” Eahlswith’s voice cut him short. Her head was forward, chin tilted up and expression subdued. She was upset, but upset in the way that came about every time either of them spoke about their unchangeable circumstances. It was the unhappiness that made Alfred think that she still wished she’d run away to an abbey and be married the church instead of Alfred.

 

Alfred bowed his head and sighed, “No, it is not.”

 

“Yes, it is.” Eahlswith whispered. The hall was too loud for anyone near them to overhear their conversation, but it still felt that speaking out loud about these things was dangerous. Eahlswith tilted her head to speak in Alfred’s ear again, and Alfred lifted his now full cup of water to his lips and looked out on the feast, “I don’t enjoy you distancing me Alfred, but I don’t enjoy having these conversations either. I understand my role. I am your wife, the mother of your children, you don’t need to treat me as anything different than that.”

 

“But you are more than that,” Alfred reached down and grabbed her hand. As he moved closer to speak to her, he still kept his eyes forward so as to not raise suspicion that either of them was talking about something worth overhearing. “There is no one in this court I trust more than you, Eahlswith. You know that I’ve always valued you as a friend above any other label the court might give you.”

 

Eahlswith’s lip quirked in a near smile, “I’m glad such feelings are mutual then. Let’s just forget this. Like you said, none of this should be discussed now, not when we’re supposed to look like we’re celebrating.”

 

Alfred breathed a laugh, “Right. I suppose if you really wished, you could sneak away now and I’ll tell everyone you felt lightheaded and needed some rest.”

 

It was the way that they often handled these feasts or other courtly festivities that neither of them liked. Alfred would make an excuse to allow Eahlswith to escape the night early, or she would do the same for him—sometimes they would both make an excuse and disappear together, though it was much easier to get away with such lies early on in their marriage.

 

Eahlswith was truly smiling now, content, yet somewhat dim, as she shook her head, “As much as I would appreciate that, I think I’d better stay here with you. If the Northmen try to raise another fight with the Gaini lords, my presence might be needed to calm them down.”

 

Alfred wanted to ask why Eahlswith would think another fight would break out since it had been a long while since one had rose. He looked towards the Northmen to make sure that they were all in good order, but when he did, Alfred’s eyes met Ivar’s. The king of Dublin, who had previously seemed to be in good mood now looked displeased. His blue eyes were narrowed and his mouth pinched, and the muscles in his shoulders seemed to be coiled tense.

 

Alfred pulled away from Eahlswith some and gave a short nod of understanding. Wolves were still prowling about and neither of them would be able to celebrate until there were no more lambs left for slaughter.

 

 

 

The feast kept up until late in the night, but Alfred excused himself from it shortly after Ivar left the hall with his generals, Olaf and Alfhilda, following him. Three guards trailed them at a distance and after that, Alfred stood to make his leave.

 

He first waited for Eahlswith to excuse herself, watching as she went over to where the Gaini were seated and said farewell to them. She had placed her hand on the arm of one of them, an intimate gesture that Alfred could not make sense of. The man was not her father, though it had to be someone she knew from before she was taken to be raised by her grandparents.

 

When she left, Alfred waited perhaps an hour more before making his escape. He was spent and exhausted by the end of it, but his mind was still too active to find sleep. Despite Eahlswith telling Alfred he shouldn’t feel bad about the way he’d been ignoring her recently, Alfred was still wracked with guilt on the matter, and it was made worse by the fact that when Alfred went up to Eahlswith’s chambers, her door was locked and her servant told Alfred that Eahlswith was already asleep.

 

It was practically customary that after feasts Alfred and Eahlswith would join each other to talk through the evening. The tradition started when they were both young and unfamiliar with being the center of attention during feasts. It mostly was comprised of them venting their own insecurities over a bottle of stolen wine, which turned into them making fun of something unusual that had passed during the evening, which turned into laughter and drunkenness, and the sort of mistakes that were best made with someone who you trusted.

 

But Eahlswith had gone to sleep and Alfred told the servant not to wake her. He instead turned down the hall and listened to the footsteps of the guard who trailed behind him and Alfred was left thinking about how very unhappy he was in spite of the celebration happening in his castle, and then how very selfish he was for feeling such things.

 

If Alfred could not be with Eahlswith, he at least wanted to be alone. He went to his chambers and the guard took post outside the doors. Inside his rooms, he was alone, though no less unhappy. If it were not for the feast that was still going on, Alfred would go to his study and look over his battle plans or at the figures which told him how much taxes would need to be increased to fund the navy. Those things would have distracted him and made Alfred feel useful, but like this, all alone, Alfred almost wished he’d stayed at the feast, which at least would have distracted him from everything he knew he ought to be doing.

 

Alfred paced the room, and at some point, he reached into one of the cabinets in the antechamber and pulled out a bottle of ale and popped the cork at the neck of the bottle. At some point, he had drained a fourth of the bottle and decided that drinking alone was not nearly as satisfying as drinking with Eahlswith. At some point, Alfred went to the small door at the far side of the room, the one that was covered with a tapestry and hid the entrance to the old servant’s tunnels that were used during the time of King Ecebert, and snuck inside, escaping the confines of his room without alerting the guard who still stood outside his door waiting. At some point, Alfred realized he still held the bottle of ale and took another drink.

 

The servant tunnels were mazes of hidden hallways built into the walls of the castle. Their purpose was to allow servants to go through the castle without being seen, but in all of Alfred’s years of living at Wessex’s castle, he did not remember them ever being used. When the heathen army destroyed the castle and killed King Ecebert, very little of the original servant tunnels were left standing. Those that were ended up being rebuilt into the complex, left nearly as abandoned as before.

 

Wispy spider-webs decorated the low ceiling and ash and gravel covered the narrow floor. The tunnel was as dark as pitch, and Alfred kept one hand on the wall and the other on the neck of the bottle as he followed the familiar path to the belly of the castle.

 

Alfred always had the sneaking suspicion that the servant tunnels were not meant for servants at all. Even when Ecebert was king, no servants ever used them, and when the ruins of the castle were being rebuilt none of the masons ever remembered doing maintenance on the tunnels, or them ever existing in the first place. Alfred’s theory was that the tunnels had always belonged to his grandfather Ecebert. Perhaps, long ago, they were used by the servants, but when Ecebert became king such practices stopped. The hidden tunnels provided the perfect means of moving about undetected, with entrances to other rooms or halls that were never noticed. If one wanted an advantage over their court, these tunnels were the way to do it.

 

Alfred never used them though, and most of the entrances were never rebuilt or were blocked off completely. Some still remained, and while at times they could go months never being used, occasionally Alfred found a reason to stoop his back and trail a hand against the dusty wall and walk through the dark.

 

The floor was sloping downward, and it did not take long for Alfred to reach the hidden entrance to the old abandoned baths. After the destruction of the castle, the baths were one of the few features still left in fair condition, though they were never used anymore.

 

The slanted windows let in some of the subtle light of the night, and Alfred moved towards the candle stands that rested against the wall and lit them to provide a little more light. The baths had been modeled after those used by the Romans, or so Alfred remembered his grandfather saying. Two rectangular baths made up much of the room, and both were big enough to hold several people and deep enough that Alfred could have stood at the bottom and still need to lift his arm some to reach the lip of the bath. Alfred did not know how they used to be filled or heated, but nowadays they were empty and fairly useless. One day Alfred would think of something to do with the space, but for now, it was a reminder of Wessex’s past.

 

Alfred moved to sit at the edge of one of the baths. He let his legs dangle over the ledge and thought about how the last time he was here he was with Eahlswith. He took another drink from the bottle of ale, feeling the unpleasant burn move down his throat, and thought what a strange place he brought his bride to. They’d only been married a few months at the time and they’d both been so uncomfortable with each other. For some reason, Alfred thought the solution to that was to explore the castle with her and show her all the little places Alfred kept hidden from everyone else. It had, strangely enough, worked, and he and Eahlswith had gotten drunk and become something a little closer to friends.

 

That was one of the better memories Alfred associated with the place. Mostly though, Alfred contemplated the nature of these baths and the purpose they served while Ecebert was still alive and king. Alfred wondered if his father or mother had ever walked across these floors. He wondered if Ragnar Lothbrok ever stood near this spot, he wondered if the man—the priest—who broke his vows and sired Alfred- ever sat where Alfred did now.

 

It was not often that Alfred thought of the man who was his father. Aethelwulf had always been the only father Alfred ever considered, but the other man, Aethelstan, was always a figure Alfred kept pushed far back in his thoughts. It was because of that man that Alfred had been born of sin—born because of betrayal and infidelity, and born into bastardy that Alfred had somehow overcome. It reminded Alfred that he should not be king; that he was no true son of Aethelwulf or Wessex and that Alfred was just a pretender in the role he now plays.

 

He took another swig of the ale and laid back.

 

 

The ceiling was sloped and bent and Alfred traced the lines of the ridges with his eyes until he heard footsteps approaching. While the servant tunnels were one way to get to the baths, there were other ways, all equally unused. Other than Eahlswith, Alfred could not think of anyone who would have used the servant tunnels, and he couldn’t think of anyone who would have found the inconvenient and forgotten passages that would have led a person down to the abandoned baths either.

 

Alfred pushed himself up with the heel of his palm, eyes straining to make out the source of the footsteps in the shallow light.

 

Because Alfred’s life was circular—because it was comprised of patterns of predictable events, and because on nights like this where Alfred was drunk and God sought to mock him—it was the heavy drag of Ivar’s footsteps that Alfred recognized.

 

It seemed Ivar was the one who was surprised to see Alfred lounging on the dusty floor. His face held open confusion before the expression cut off and Ivar tossed the torch in his hand into the bottom of the bath Alfred still hung his legs over. Alfred used that light to watch Ivar walk along the perimeter of the baths, one hand on the wall to help him seeming to come around towards Alfred. Alfred thought that Ivar could have gotten to him a lot faster if he was still using his crutches, or if he just crawled like he used to do. The braces he wore now must have been uncomfortable, and after a long day, it would have been difficult to walk with them as easily as he usually did.

 

“Don’t those hurt? They look like they do; why don’t you take them off?” Alfred hadn’t meant to ask, but it seemed like a very good question now that he said it out loud. It wasn’t as if Alfred hadn’t thought to ask the question about a hundred times since Ivar came to his hall, but propriety always stopped Alfred from doing so. Propriety seemed less important now.

 

Ivar stilled. His face, like before, was opened in surprise. It was nearly as short-lived as the last time, because Ivar’s eyes narrowed and found their way to the half-empty bottle beside Alfred. “You’ve been drinking.”

 

“They must hurt. I know that’s why you always try to sit when we talk. I understand why you use them when you’re with your men or in my halls, but what I don’t understand is why you would use them now when no one else would see you.”

 

Ivar’s mouth curled in on itself until Alfred couldn’t tell if it was a grimace or a snarl. He was standing very still against the wall, his hand curling into the plaster and rock like it might try to carve a piece out. “You are here.”

 

“But I don’t care.” Alfred told him ardently, sitting up a little more so that Ivar could see that he truly meant it, but felt a swooping feeling in his head as he tried to. He curled a hand on the rock to steady himself, “I’ve never cared about whether you could walk or not—it doesn’t bother me. I don’t want my presence to stop you from doing what’s most comfortable.”

 

Ivar stared at him for a while with a look that lacked comprehension and then he started to laugh. While Alfred knew he was being laughed at, Ivar’s laugh still sounded nice. It was strong and robust and loud and even though it took on an edge of cruelty, it was nice to hear something other than a scoff leave Ivar’s lips. Alfred thought Ivar should laugh more often, and that Alfred would like nothing more than to hear Ivar’s laugh free of any sort of mocking or cruelty.

 

Ivar continued to move around the wall until he was close enough to Alfred that he left its touch and moved towards the bath and sat down gracelessly. A mocking grin was still on his lips as he stretched out his legs and leaned back on his palms. As he did, the chords of muscle in his arms shifted along with those in her shoulders and assumedly back. Ivar was so strong; built from war and fighting and the long-buried need to prove to his people that he was more than his disability. The Northmen valued strength and Ivar was the embodiment of that. Alfred watched the motions, sitting a little taller and tucking one leg to his chest to wrap his arms around and letting the other leg to continue to hang over the side of the empty bath.

 

“You’re so strong.” Alfred let the words trip off his tongue. The statement made Ivar blink, but an amused smile now sculpted his lips and so Alfred continued, “When you’re training the soldiers or helping with the boats, its so obvious, but even in the council meetings I can see it. I think it makes other men fear you.”

 

That smile was still on Ivar’s mouth and it erased the creases that had been around his eyes at the feast. Even with the poor lighting, that should have darkened Ivar’s features, the smile made Ivar look much younger than he usually did. Not like the young man Alfred knew while being a captive of the heathen army, but of the man that Ivar could have been if it weren’t for war or conquest.

 

“You would not be saying any of this if you were not drunk.” Ivar tilted his chin towards the bottle Alfred was holding in one of his hands. He’d been moving his thumb up and down the polished neck, but stopped now that Ivar had referenced the drink.

 

Alfred looked down at it and frowned. “That might be true. I don’t think I’m drunk yet, but I’ve perhaps had enough to drink that I’m not considering my words. I suppose I ought to stop,” and then thoughtlessly, as Alfred contemplated this, he lifted the bottle and took another drink. He set the bottle down and curled his nose, the taste was still awful. When he looked above his lashes he could see that Ivar was laughing at him.

 

“I do not think you can hold your drink, Saxon.” Ivar reached forward and grabbed the bottle from Alfred’s hand. Alfred tracked the movement as Ivar lifted it and took a long swig himself, throat bobbing as swallowed.

 

Alfred felt his face getting red, and in the back of his mind, he told himself that he absolutely should not say what he was thinking in that moment. Even in the midst of drunkenness, Alfred still held some self-control. He cleared his throat and looked down at the dying torch at the bottom of the bath. “Saxon? You’ve not called me that one before.”

 

Ivar shrugged and set the bottle down so that it rested more or less between them. Alfred’s face still felt hot and he thought that maybe taking another drink might distract him.

 

“What are you doing down here?” Ivar finally asked, which stopped Alfred from further contemplating the choice of either drinking more or trying to start a conversation about all the names Alfred could call Ivar but never would. “Why aren’t you curled in your bed with your wife? You certainly seemed close to her at the feast.”

 

Alfred frowned, trying to remember if that was true. At the feast, Alfred had felt very distant from Eahlswith, like maybe there was a whole cavern of unsaid things between them. It was not a feeling Alfred enjoyed and he doubted Eahlswith enjoyed it either. Alfred doubted Eahlswith ever wanted Alfred to curl around her.

 

“I doubt Eahlswith ever wants me to curl with her.” Alfred paused because that did not sound right. “Curled with her…curling with—curled in—curl—”

 

“Why should that stop you?” It sounded like Ivar only spoke to get Alfred to stop. The question though, was not meaningless. It carried great meaning, and if not to Alfred, then to Ivar.

 

Alfred tried to sit straight again, but the motion almost sent him falling into the bath. He did not let that distract him and he felt now a deep sense of concern. “Of course, it stopped me. I would never force Eahlswith to join me in my bed. She has her own bed that she likes very much.”

 

This again, brought a queer expression to Ivar’s face. Both amused and confused, and Alfred wondered if there was a word for that—a word that explained the feeling of being kept out in the dark, left defenseless and in chaos and despite this still feeling joy and knowing that you were at your happiest left out in that way. Alfred thought that there must be a word to describe that because it was the way he often felt when he was with Ivar.

 

“Why are you here?” And this was the new thought that occupied Alfred’s mind. He angled his body so that he was closer to Ivar, and his foot now brushed the metal brace around Ivar’s legs.

 

Ivar was now looking at where Alfred’s foot almost touched him, and answered easily, “Am I not allowed down here?”

 

Alfred shook his head and suddenly needing to prove his sentiment through contact, moved a little closer so that Alfred was now sitting on his knees and it was his hand touching Ivar’s leg.

 

“No, I’ve told my court that you are allowed wherever you want. The guards should not stop you—where is your guard?” and now Alfred was pulling his hand away, and looking around the room to try and find the guard who should have been following Ivar. As he did, Ivar reached down and took another long drink of ale, much like a parched man who just discovered water.

 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and the ale had nothing to mend his rough throat, “I see why you do not drink at your feasts, Little King.”

 

Alfred pulled away and sat back down. He suddenly felt a bit timid realizing that he must have said something wrong. This was not something he ever worried about when he drank with Eahlswith, but with her there was nothing to fear. As always, Alfred forgot that with Ivar there was everything to fear.

 

“I don’t like what alcohol does to men, much less me.” Alfred admitted, turning his head away, “I find that I have less control over my words. I am not so careful.”

 

“It is not your words that bother me.”

 

And then, confused, Alfred looked down and saw that he had gone back and placed his hand on Ivar’s leg again. Alfred hadn’t even noticed doing so, though it did not feel out of place being set there. Had Alfred never touched Ivar’s leg before? Why not? Surely Alfred had _touched_ Ivar before, though now that he thought about it, all Alfred could think about was that night ten years ago where Alfred had leaned close to Ivar studying his bare tattooed chest in the dim light of the tent. Very quickly, Alfred reminded himself not to mention this either.

 

Ivar cleared his throat and finally Alfred moved his hand away, picking it up and pulling it to his own chest like it had been burned. “Apologies.” Alfred spoke quickly beneath his breath.

 

“Is this what you are like when you are not being careful?” Ivar asked and he must have been watching Alfred who was now trying to put a little more space between them again. Clearly, being close was doing Alfred no favors.

 

Alfred scoffed bitterly, “This is what I’m like when I’m being _very_ careful.”

 

“You are not very good at being careful then.”

 

And leaning back so that Alfred was laying on the floor again, he muttered, “I know.”

 

 

Several moments passed during which Alfred stared at the shadowed ceiling and listened as Ivar pick up the bottle of ale again and take another long drink. The bottle was set back down somewhere near Alfred’s head with a dull thud, and Ivar shifted some, and now Alfred could feel the heat coming off the other man. Perhaps that was how Northmen could tolerate such cold weather, perhaps they all radiated warmth as powerfully as Ivar did.

 

“Are all—”

“If you are going to say something stupid,” Ivar told him harshly, sounding much closer than he had moments ago, “Think better of it.”

 

And Alfred did. He shut his mouth and considered what was something wise or meaningful that he could say. As he thought about this, Ivar took another drink of ale, and Alfred tilted his head to see that the bottle was almost empty now.

 

“Is there someone you love, Ivar?” Alfred asked, voice speaking up to the ceiling and echoing in the empty room, which now felt very large like an unending abyss, which in turn made Alfred feel that he was laying very close to Ivar. Alfred continued, a note of sadness painting his words that had so far been met with silence, “In Dublin did you ever find a…woman to start a family with? In everything I’ve heard of you, I never heard about that.”

 

The silence that continued was the sort that could have been palpable. If Alfred lifted his hand, he thought he might be able to grasp onto the silence that echoed in the room and hold onto it like it was a ghost becoming flesh. It must have been uncomfortable to sit in, thick enough that it filled your lungs with heavy weight at every breath, but near enough to a drunken stupor, Alfred felt very much like he was living in a dream and this was only a part of it.

 

Ivar took in a solid breath and Alfred felt something move near his hair, like something had brushed against the strands. “No. I never found a woman.”

 

Alfred took that in and rolled it over in his head a few times. As he did he felt something brush against his hair again and decided that it might be Ivar’s hand and that Alfred might like it there. He then decided that his question had only been asked to ease a feeling in his chest and that Ivar’s answer had made it feel no less empty. Alfred tried again.

 

“What about…” Alfred pressed his lips together and considered his phrasing carefully, “What about a non-woman?”

 

Ivar laughed with a short breath, almost like a cough. His hand stilled. “A non-woman?” his words were painted in disbelief, but it sounded very close to teasing, “Is that what Saxons call the desires of men like me?”

“There are no men like you.” Alfred felt the weight of the statement and thought that all the time people spent trying to figure out what sort of man Ivar was better spent figuring out why they needed to know in the first place. Alfred tilted his head to the side and saw Ivar’s legs lying beside him. If Alfred sat up, he would be sitting right beside Ivar. Alfred contemplated, glad that he could not see Ivar’s face, “Are you going to answer my question?”

 

“You are asking me if I have someone like your Eahlswith?”

 

“No,” Alfred said and he was sitting up now, because Ivar _still wasn’t getting it_ , and Alfred wanted to make his point very clear so that maybe he could get an answer that would ease the ache in his chest and settle all his conflicting thoughts. “ _No._ I’m asking you if you found someone you truly love and desire—someone of your own choosing, who makes you happy and who you _love._ ”

 

And a moment passed where Ivar was silent and the two of them sat face to face with very little room between them and Alfred’s breathing sounded very loud and his hands ached to grab onto something, whether it be the bottle of ale or Ivar’s leg.

 

“Yes.” Ivar spoke with unwavering certainty. A fierce desire in his eyes, all of it so very unflinching in his words.

 

“Oh.” Alfred’s word echoed. He turned his head downward, unsure if he felt cold from shame or hot from his burning skin. He shouldn’t have been surprised—he shouldn’t have been disappointed. He _should_ grab that bottle of ale and drink the rest of it until he forgets. That at least seemed like a very good idea and Alfred leaned over to reach for the bottle.

 

“Fucking idiot.” The insult was hissed. Ivar’s hand latched around Alfred’s wrist, stopping him before he reached the bottle. He looked up and saw Ivar glaring at him. “I’m talking about _you_.”

 

Alfred’s eyes widened impossibly, “ _Oh._ ”

 

He sat up, Ivar’s hand still around his wrist, and all Alfred could do was stare at him for a moment. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Alfred was struggling to comprehend what he was supposed to do next. Ivar was still staring at him, and Alfred could feel that the acceptable window for action was quickly passing him by. He was clearly supposed to say something, but Alfred couldn’t gather what that would be. All Alfred was thinking about now was what he _wanted_ to do and in lieu of anything else, Alfred decided to do that.

 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Ivar’s.

 

Kissing, in its nature, was very strange. Alfred hadn’t reconciled with whether or not he ever enjoyed it. It all felt like a lot of spit and teeth and other things which ought not feel pleasant when pressed against your mouth. Along with it came so many other questions, how long should a kiss last, how were you to tell if the other person was enjoying it, were you even enjoying it? As for Alfred’s past experience with such things, he could say that kissing Eahlswith usually felt forced, and was something both of them avoided. Once, long ago, Ivar had kissed Alfred and truthfully, Alfred could not recall what that sensation would have felt like. All he knew back then was that he might not have any choice in the matter and that if he did have a choice it should be to stop.

 

Alfred’s father and brother had just died and Ivar had been responsible. With time Alfred learned that in war there were no undue casualties. Death held mercy for no man. King, brother, father, they all died, and in war, it mattered less who did the killing as it did why there was killing to begin with. No one walked away with clean hands and Alfred felt that he was just as guilty in their deaths as Ivar was.

 

This kiss though—the one that had Alfred’s mouth open hot against Ivar’s, his hand pressed against the side of Ivar’s neck, and his heart rattling loudly in his chest and chaos opened wide in his lungs—was short lived.

 

Moments after it started, the kiss ended. Ivar’s lips broke away from Alfred’s with a growl and Alfred felt himself be pushed backwards, his hand barely catching himself before his head hit the floor.

 

“What—”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

Ivar had moved so now there was endless space between them. His face was red, eyes blown, and lips still wet from their kiss. The hand he pushed Alfred back with was still held out, like to keep back some wild animal.

 

Alfred blinked. He pushed himself up on his knees again, attempting to move closer before Ivar shot him a look that told him he ought to think better of it. Alfred tried to. He was mostly thinking about the blood pounding in his ears traveling down and the way his lips still felt raw. He lifted a hand to his bottom lip and touched it with his fingers.

 

“Stop that— _fuck.”_ Ivar growled. He pushed himself off the ground and walked to the far wall, leaning against it when he finally reached it. Ivar kept his face turned away from Alfred, his whole body held tense like the string of a crossbow. Despite his face being turned away, Alfred could see that Ivar was still glancing at him every few seconds as if trying to decide what to do.

 

Alfred fell still. He waited like that for a moment, uncomfortably sitting on his knees, hands at his sides, waiting for Ivar to decide to say something—

 

“ _Will you just stand or some shit_ —” Ivar tossed a hand before laying it over his eyes and Alfred could hear how overworked each word was.

 

Alfred did stand, and he kept his distance too. Being yelled at was always very sobering, and Alfred was very grateful for that now. He was starting to piece together every mistake he had made throughout the evening, the largest of them being the kiss.

 

“I didn’t—” Alfred dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, and tried to think, “I didn’t think that was going to upset you.”

 

Ivar scoffed, “You’re such a _fucking idiot._ ” He looked at Alfred, blues eyes narrowed into slits, “Of course you didn’t fucking _think_. That’s my _fucking_ responsibility, isn’t it?”

 

Alfred didn’t know how to answer. He opened his mouth blankly for a beat before finally saying, “No? I…I thought that you wanted me to kiss you.” Alfred’s skin burned red. He brought a hand to the back of his neck and looked at the ground. Maybe he had drunken enough that night to forget all of this in the morning.

 

“Of course, I want you to kiss me.” Ivar growled throwing his hand again and his voice not losing an ounce of the anger. Alfred should have been happy to hear that his assumption hadn’t been wrong, but relief, like their kiss, was fleeting. “I _don’t_ want to kiss you while you’re drunk enough to pretend I forced it on you the next morning.”

 

“What?” Alfred choked, looking up in alarm.

 

“If you were fucking sober you wouldn’t have kissed me.” Ivar spat, contempt filling him from the soles of his boots to the sharp curve of his jaw that was pulled up spitefully. Again, Alfred thought that Ivar could have been some dark Norse god, the shadows of the room cast a wicked light on him, rage filled the spaces shadows could not touch. “If I wanted to force you I would have a long time ago.”

 

“I’m not—” Alfred’s brains scrambled, “I’m not accusing you of forcing me—I wouldn’t! I’m not drunk either, trust me when I say I wanted to kiss you.”

 

Ivar sneered, looking away, “Say that to me when you haven’t drunk half a bottle of ale.”

 

“ _Fine._ ” Alfred decided, standing firm in his ground. If that’s what Ivar wanted then _fine_. Alfred was no coward. He wasn’t afraid of Ivar. “Then I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

 

Ivar laughed, and it didn’t sound nice this time, it sounded drenched in disbelief and hatred and it made Alfred want to prove him wrong. “Yeah? You so confident about that, Little King?”

 

“I am, actually.” Alfred was swaying a bit, but planted his feet and tried to hold steady, tried to counteract the derision Ivar displayed with his own raw confidence, “If you won’t let me kiss you tonight then tomorrow when you decide I’m sober, I will.”

 

Ivar’s gaze was constant when it hit Alfred. It was a weapon of its own, and not one Alfred would bow to. “I’m not asking you to make promises that you can’t keep.”

 

 

Again, Alfred should have reflected that celebrations often accompanied the making of mistakes. Pride did the same. If he had considered that then maybe he would have taken back his words, he would have taken Ivar’s defense and would have done his best to forget about this argument and their kiss. Alfred would have done the wise thing and he would have made a strategic retreat and all the chaos in his head could be summed up to a dream. Like dreams, this would blend into a realm of lies, join the intangible thoughts that were never given voice, and forgotten, save for the nights Alfred fell to weakness. It was weakness because when Alfred was with Ivar all he felt was _chaos,_ and only a fool would choose to give that breath.

 

Chaos and dreams were best kept apart. Together risked nightmares, it risked reckless abandon, it risked the wild hope that was rooted in Alfred’s chest that told him that he now knew what he wanted. These things were often found at the bottom of a bottle, or in a stolen kiss. They were not things that survived when the sun rose and dreams were stopped.

 

If Alfred could reflect on any of this, he would have known that.

 

“You don’t need to ask me,” Alfred spoke with the bravado and confidence of a man who did not see the grave he was walking into. “This is my promise to make, Ivar Ragnarsson.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the goal is that this will be ten chapters. This means that the next chapters will probably be very long. It might be 11 chapters.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

There was spilt wine on the bed.

 

Alfred’s head felt split, but that was the first thing he noticed. Red like blood, it was still damp beside the pillow, the bottle overturned and now empty. The bottle of ale from the night before was also empty and lay beside it.

 

Last night. Alfred shut his eyes and tried to keep away the patches of it he remembered. His memory of it was like a dream. Not all of it felt entirely real and much of it, Alfred would wager, he was making up and hadn’t really happened. The kiss though—Alfred remembered that. Unfortunately, he remembered that.

 

The light of the morning was streaming through the opened curtain of Alfred’s room. The air was crisp, cold even, which reflected the foggy fields that could be seen beyond the window. It might rain again, or perhaps the fog would just hang onto the moors until the sun came up and burnt it away, but it would be a dower day either way, and one Alfred intended to spend within his chamber, far away from any other pulsing corpse.

 

He felt like a corpse and wished he didn’t have a pulse. Alfred was envious of corpses, of the peace they felt and how they were immune to the follies of heavy drinking and the mornings that followed. He was envious of how they had no lips that could be loosened by a little ale and a hungry heart.

 

Then there was everything else. All the other memories that were now coming back—memories that were even worse than the kiss itself. Alfred had promised Ivar that he would do it again, that he would prove his own desire for the other man today and that memory made Alfred lean off his bed and empty his stomach of the wine that sat heavy there.

 

There was spilt wine on the floor now, and Alfred’s mind echoed of promises that were made for breaking.

 

What had he been thinking? Alfred was a father, a husband, a king—he couldn’t…he couldn’t be so stupid. That’s what he had been: stupid and foolish and selfish and shortsighted and every other thing Alfred never was.

 

Alfred was never this much of a fool, not before Ivar had entered his life at least.

 

As the hours ticked by Alfred considered this. Head pounding, heart drumming, soul aching, he considered how every unfortunate path Alfred had ever been forced to walk was because of Ivar. This would not join the list—Alfred’s heart was not made for seizure.

 

Alfred had given himself a day to be brave. A day to be honest. A day to be a fool. The day would go wasted, because Alfred would not be leaving his room. His sober resolve for self-preservation was stronger than that of the foolish drunken heart that begged for release.

 

Men could afford to be honest, but Alfred was a king; and kings soaked themselves in lies, like the room was soaked in wine, and they would not make decisions based on heedless drunken claims and they would not give into sinful desires.

 

The day would pass, just like the night before. Memories would fade, regret would fade, the ache in his soul would fade. On the marrow, Ivar would hate Alfred—hate him for being a coward and hate him for carrying on a lie, but one day that would fade too.

 

Shutting his eyes, Alfred willed the morning and his consciousness away. It would all fade, given time. It had to, because Alfred was the King of Wessex, the most powerful man in the English isles, the commander of armies and ruler of thousands, and as king he was given very much, he could take very much. Despite all of that though, a king could never have what he wants and such things should never have been spoken aloud.  

 

 

 

Three days passed and Alfred stayed bound to his chambers, conducting any necessary business in there. He feigned an illness and refused any questions asked on the matter. Part of him realized he must have been waiting the Northmen out. They would leave soon now that the Saxons knew how to build the ships.

 

Part of Alfred was waiting for the announcement that Ivar was returning to Dublin, spurned and angry, other times Alfred thought that Ivar might seek him out, bang on the door to the chambers and demand and audience with the king. That never happened though, and no news of Ivar came and Alfred was beginning to let himself think that Ivar would disappear from Alfred’s life as easily as he had the first time. Alfred considered if he would grow used to the rising wave of cold in his bones again as easily as he had before, he wondered if the ice had always hurt when it caged his heart or if all he felt before was just numb.

 

Until any of these matters were settled though, there was only one thing that could have forced Alfred from his loathsome asylum. Unfortunately, on the third day, that one thing happened.

 

Alfred received word from his attendant that Aethelweard had been injured and Alfred forgot all about his shameful isolation and ordered his attendant to take him to his son at once. Alfred was told that he didn’t need to be taken to Aethelweard, because Aethelweard was already in the castle and already waiting for him.

 

They were in the physician’s chambers. The chambers were damp, placed in a hall beneath the kitchens and reminded Alfred too much of his own youth and all the days he used to spend in here back then. Alfred’s heart was already beating fast, wondering what had happened to his son, and how he could have possibly been hurt, why he had been taken to be treated at the castle rather than the children’s estate, whether or not he was going to be okay.

 

The attendant had little news of what happened, only that Aethelweard had been hurt recently, that it was an urgent matter, and that he had been taken to the Physician Wigstan for immediate treatment and that Eahlswith was nowhere to be found.

 

So many things in that statement caused Alfred’s fear to spike. The lack of information was the worst part and Alfred had been rather brutal with the attendant’s ignorance on the matter as he stormed through the castle to Wigstan’s working chambers to be at his son’s side.

 

All thoughts ceased when Alfred saw Aethelweard sitting on a raised bench near the wall of the physicians’ chambers. He looked so small and so fragile. Alfred’s middle child was easily the most rambunctious of the three, always getting into trouble, causing the tutors problems, or fighting with his siblings—the child was fearless, defiantly so—now Aethelweard looked scared. His large eyes were filled with tears and his face was red from crying. One arm was bent towards his chest, the other clutching it protectively.

 

Alfred ran to his side, stopping short of grabbing Aethelweard’s shoulders when he saw the stomach-turning bend in his son’s arm. The bone was twisted against the flesh, cracked near the forearm and elbow and sticking out painfully. Aethelweard’s own face was turned away from it, but his lip began quivering when he saw the look of pain and fear cross Alfred’s face.

 

Alfred still had not moved—arms still outstretched towards his son, kneeling beside the bench, face ashen. How had this happened? Where were Aethelweard’s tutors? His nurse? His mother? Wigstand, the physician? What had happened to Alfred’s son and who had allowed him to be hurt in this way?

 

“Father—” Aethelweard lisped the name in a broken cry, so close to the edge of tears that Alfred felt his heart crack.

 

A figure stepped forward from the shadows. And Alfred felt his heart stop as he saw that Ivar was the one that stepped towards his son and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked to be a giant beside the cowering child—a lion beside a lamb—the face so often drawn in hate was surprisingly gentle though, and Aethelweard did not shutter by the touch, but drew closer to Ivar and stifled another cry.

 

Alfred moved back like a specter fleeing from sunlight. The whole scene was now so confusing that Alfred did not know where to put his focus or thoughts. He only barely realized that there were several guards in the room, or that Aethelweard had shallow scrapes on his face and dirt smudged on his skin that matched the dirt on Ivar’s clothes and boots. What Alfred did notice was that Ivar did not look at him once, Aethelweard had quieted his whimpers when Ivar set his hand on him, and the Physician was still absent from the room, and before Alfred could think of something to say or do, the door to the chambers opened and Wigstan came forward.

 

 

“Your majesty!” Wigstan moved into a sweeping bow, flustered immediately. A heavy tome was in his arms, and it nearly slipped from his grasp when he saw Alfred kneeling beside his son.

 

Alfred glanced up for only a moment before looking back at Ivar and Aethelweard before finally settling on Aethelweard. Alfred cautiously moved forward and set a hand on his son’s knee, trying his best not to cringe when he glanced at the broken arm.

 

“How did this happen? Why has my son still not been treated?”

 

Wigstan moved quickly, setting the tome on the large table at the center of the room that was filled with all of the physician’s medical equipment and tools. When it was placed on the table some glass jars of herbs rattled and copper saw almost fell to the floor, pushed aside to make room.

 

Wigstan had been trained in Mercia, acquired to Wessex’s castle when Alfred married Eahlswith. Alfred had little negative to say about the physician’s capabilities, but as for the man’s personality, Alfred could say that he had met more courageous rabbits.

 

“Apologies your majesty.” Another low bow, “I merely departed from the room for a moment so that I can find a text, which would detail the musculature of the arm. I did not want to attempt to set the bone in the prince’s arm until I knew for certain that my actions would not cause…” he paused while giving a fearful glance at Ivar who was burning a steady, if not aggressive, gaze into the physician’s skull, “Disfigurement.” He cleared his throat and looked away.

 

“Did you at least give Aethelweard something for his pain, before you did this research, Wigstan?” Alfred’s tone was calculatingly calm, not wanting to startle Aethelweard any more than necessary. If it was not for his son’s presence though, Alfred would be close to strangling the other man, because by the looks of Aethelweard’s ashen, sweaty skin, Alfred was certain that the boy hadn’t been given anything to deal with his pain.

 

Wigstan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, “I was just getting to that, your majesty.” And without another word, Wigstan fled to the other side of the room to go through a cabinet filled with vials of potions and jars of poultices, which rattled when the physicians grabbed at them with shaking hands.   

 

Alfred looked at the guards now, “How did this happen?”

 

It was Ivar who spoke when the others remained silent. It was clear the guards had not been present when Aethelweard was hurt, and Alfred could recognize one of them as a guard who had been assigned to watching the Northmen. Alfred had nearly forgotten about Ivar until that moment, and his eyes shot up to look at the man who still stood at Aethelweard’s side.

 

“He fell.” This was all Ivar said for a moment. His jaw clenched when he looked at Alfred now, and he looked at Alfred with the same contempt he had held for the physician moments ago. He continued stiffly, “Your boy had been watching my Northmen practice shield formation from the wall that surrounds the fields. I saw something fall from there and when I came over I found him like this.”

 

Alfred stared, breath steady. He believed every word without doubt, yet believing did nothing to answer the questions plaguing Alfred’s mind.

 

Wigstan stepped towards Aethelweard and Alfred moved to the side to make room for the physician who helped Aethelweard swallow a thick potion. The boy gagged at the taste and cried for Alfred again who was at his side in a moment, rubbing circles into the boy’s back.

 

“It’s alright,” Alfred promised his quietly until the gagging passed and Aethelweard quieted down, tears speckling his ruddy face. “Why were you at the wall? Where was your nurse?”

 

“I’m sorry.” Was all Aethelweard could make out before the tears started falling.

 

Alfred shushed him gently, hoping that the medicine would work fast and ease his son’s pain. He looked back up at Ivar and he was momentarily struck by the look of carefully concealed concern on Ivar’s face, which quickly disappeared when he saw Alfred staring. Ivar’s face had returned to a stony mask of contempt and Alfred accepted that this might always be the way Ivar looked at him now.

 

“You brought Aethelweard here yourself?” Alfred asked him.

 

The wall that surrounded the training yard was not very tall, it perhaps reached Alfred’s shoulders and beneath it was a muddy ditch covered in brambles. The fall would have hurt Aethelweard a great deal, and he would have fallen into those thorny brambles and mud with enough force that if he had put his arm out to catch his fall, it would have cracked. Clearly, that had happened. What confused Alfred still was that Ivar had even noticed Aethelweard fall and that he had cared enough to carry a crying, Saxon child out of the mud and thorns and found the physician to treat them in the first place.

 

Ivar only gave a nod, looking irritated by the question and inconvenience of it all. Yet, when Aethelweard whimpered again, it was both men who turned to the child and all pretenses of indifference were dropped.

 

“I must set the bone now so that it can heal properly,” Wigstan walked forward, motioning for Aethelweard to be picked up and set on an operating table that sat beside a window with better lighting.

 

Alfred nodded and carefully maneuvered Aethelweard in his arms as to not jostle his arm more than necessary. It made Alfred consider how much care Ivar would have had to give when doing this before, and how he must have been careful when moving Aethelweard here because Aethelweard did not seem the least bit afraid of Ivar.

 

“It hurts.” Aethelweard moaned in a broken cry.

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Alfred whispered as he carried his son to the wooden operating table, “We’re going to fix it. We’re going to make it better.”

Aethelweard gave a brave nod when he was set down. He still was clutching his good arm around the broken one, and didn’t seem eager to move it away so that Wigstan could fix it.

 

Alfred pressed his lips together and tried to explain to his son that he had to let Wigstan touch the broken arm if he wanted it to feel better.

 

“It will only be for a moment, Aethelweard. Wigstan wants to help you—he can make it feel better.”

 

Aethelweard shook his head fiercely and now looked like he might start sobbing, “No, I don’t like him. I don’t want him to do it. Father, you do it, please!”

 

Aethelweard had never been sent to see Wigstan before, not since he was a baby. All his youngest son knew about the Physician was that when his grandmother had been seen by the man, she hadn’t lived long after. Alfred could understand why Aethelweard was afraid, but Alfred had little ability to help the situation. Alfred’s uselessness must have been apparent to the whole room, and having the guards and worst of all—Ivar—look on at it and see that Alfred couldn’t even help his own son made things feel much worse.

 

“I don’t know how to set bones, Aethelweard,” Alfred tried to keep his own pain out of his voice. While he did not feel physical pain, seeing his son so afraid and hurt and being so useless to help, caused a pain of its own kind. “You want it to heal right, don’t you? I don’t want to make it worse, Aethelweard. You have to let Wigstan help you.”

 

Aethelweard shook his head and began crying out when Wigstan took a step towards him. Alfred did not want to have to hold his son down while the physician set the bones, but if that was the only way they could be fixed, Alfred was going to have to. Aethelweard would cry out the entire time, would thrash around and aggravate the injury, but at least if Alfred held him down Wigstan could set the bone and Aethelweard could heal. As a father, this was not a choice that had any right answer—either way Aethelweard would be scared and hurt—but the arm had to be fixed. Alfred, with a sickening breath, was about to make this known to Wigstan, when Ivar moved towards the operating table. He still kept a good distance back, eyeing the room warily, but cleared his throat to speak.

 

“I can fix the bones.”

 

There were several voices speaking at once. Wigstan was making an objection, explaining how very delicate this matter was and how if done incorrectly Aethelweard would experience permanent damage. A guard moved forward to try and push Ivar back, saying something about his not being allowed to touch the prince. Ivar was speaking, making some hissing threat to the guard, that if he touched him, he’d snap the man’s neck. Alfred did not hear any of them.

 

“Stop—” He ordered the room, before looking at Ivar. After the way Alfred had spurned Ivar, he should not have been putting the future of his son in Ivar’s hands. Alfred had a vicious temper. When insulted by his own brother, Ivar had almost killed the other man. Why would he not take this vulnerable moment to cripple Alfred’s son in an act of revenge against the insult Alfred now served him. Alfred considered none of that. “You are certain you know how to set the bones?”

 

Ivar pushed the guard off of him and stepped forward with a jerk of his chin, “I’ve seen injuries like this in battle. Olaf received one when he fell from a fort when we captured Dublin. I fixed him then and he was in fighting shape not a month later.”

 

“Your majesty, as a student of the medicinal arts, I must advise against this—”

 

Alfred turned to Aethelweard, kneeling down to speak to him directly, “Would you let Ivar fix your arm?”

 

The nod came almost immediately after the question was asked, as if he had the same certainty in Ivar that Alfred had.

 

“Yes, please,” Aethelweard said feebly, the glittery crystals of tears still on his lashes. No one contradicted Alfred’s decision then when Alfred asked Ivar to come forward and fix Aethelweard’s arm. Wigstan was fretting around in the background and the guards had warry expressions fixed on their faces, and Alfred’s heart was still beating in his chest, but Ivar came forward with the utmost calm and crouched down at the table beside Aethelweard (though doing so must have hurt his legs terribly) and gestures for Aethelweard to move his arm.

 

“I’m afraid it will hurt.” Aethelweard looked between Ivar and his father, before settling on Ivar who still held a hand out for Aethelweard’s arm. “Will it hurt much?”

 

“Yes.” Ivar answered carelessly, “It will hurt more than your father or that cowering physician will tell you it will. But if I do not do this, it will hurt even more than that and it will never stop hurting.”

 

Alfred braced himself, ready to intercept Ivar and Aethelweard when tears started to fall. Ivar wasn’t wrong, but this was the exact sort of careless comment that Alfred did not want to have his son hearing.

 

Aethelweard didn’t cry though. He made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat and his bottom lip quivered, but he nodded his head and started to move the hand that clutched his broken arm away.

 

“How long will it hurt?” Aethelweard was looking down, eyes fearfully glancing at the braces on Ivar’s legs, “Will I need those too?”

 

Ivar’s mouth tilted into a laugh and he shook his head, “You won’t end up like me, not as long as you let me fix it. Stop asking questions. You aren’t a coward, are you?”

Aethelweard shook his head and this had been the thing to say, because Aethelweard, despite his fear, was set on proving himself to Ivar. He moved away his hand from his arm and edged it in Ivar’s direction. Aethelweard’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his lips still quivered and before Ivar could put a hand on his broken arm, Alfred moved forward and grabbed his son’s good hand.

 

Alfred and Ivar shared a glance, their first one that should no hesitation or traces of hate. Ivar was waiting for Alfred’s show of approval and when Alfred gave a single nod, Ivar reached for Aethelweard’s arm and unbent it and the elbow. Aethelweard hissed and dug his nails into Alfred’s hand—Alfred hoped that Aethelweard would lose consciousness before all of this was over so that he would not have to feel when the bone set. That hope breathed true, as when Ivar put his large hand over Aethelweard’s broken bone that bent tight over the pulled flesh and pushed down on it, a crack rang through the room and Aethelweard’s eyes flew upon with a cry, before rolling back and his tiny frame slumped forward.

 

Alfred caught him in his arms, “Is it done?” he asked, feeling Aethelweard’s steady pulse to be certain his son was okay.

 

“I’ve slid the bone back in place, but I’m not finished.” Ivar kept his focus on Aethelweard’s arm. Moving it again, he shifted the broken limb and Alfred had to look away, unable to watch the frail, defenseless body of his youngest son be worked on like this.

 

At last, Ivar said something and Wigstan ran over holding a bundle of bandaged. With the same focus as before, Ivar wrapped Aethelweard’s arm, making a sling around his neck so that the arm could hang supported there until it healed. When this was finished, Alfred eased his son from his chest and laid him down on the table.

 

Alfred moved to sit down on a chair, feeling near exhaustion. He put his head in his hands and listened as Wigstan checked Aethelweard over quickly, and said that he would wake soon. Alfred told one guard to find Eahlswith and let her know what happened, and for the others, he ordered out of the room. Wigstan must have left too—frightened by how aggressively Alfred had barked the order, because when Alfred lifted his head from his hands, Ivar was the only one of them left in the room with him.

 

Alfred closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, “Thank you. For it all—for bringing Aethelweard here, for setting the bones—”

 

“Shut up.” Ivar had taken a seat on a chair across the room. He had sunk back in the shadows like before, and if it were not for the edging light of the window, Alfred might not have seen him.

 

Alfred grimaced. The hateful tone in Ivar’s voice was back, and with Aethelweard unconscious, there was nothing stopping Ivar from saying every vengeful thing he had kept silent before. Alfred would take it all—swallow it like spilt wine—carry the bitter taste in his body until he could bear it no longer. It was only fair that he did so, he was the one to cause the anger after all. While his son might not be one, Alfred was certainly a coward, and this was the penance of that. Even so, after the last hour and the exhaustion Alfred felt from it, he could not keep bay his own aggravations.

 

“I suppose you don’t want my thanks,” Alfred remarked bitterly, glancing over to his son, “You’ll probably just say that you did not do any of this for him anyway.”

 

Ivar must have had something lined up to say before, because this comment took him by surprise. At the mention of Aethelweard, Ivar glanced over to the table the boy slept on and tapped his closed fist against his knee as he thought.

 

“I did not think he was yours, not at first.” Ivar’s voice had a far-off quality to it, like he was remembering something that happened years ago. His eyes had the same quality to them, clouded with emotions that left him feeling removed from this world. “I saw something fall from the wall and I thought that it might have been a spy. When I came closer and saw that it was only a child I was going to send it on its way. The boy was bleeding, sobbing, clutching his arm and covered in mud and tears and when he saw me he begged that I didn’t tell his tutors where he’d been.”

 

The laugh caught them both by surprise. Alfred hadn’t imagined that this was where the story had been going. He’d been listening tensely to it the entire time, but the last part sounded so much like Aethelweard, the little troublemaker who would rather climb a dangerous wall to watch invading Vikings train than to sit in a room with his Latin tutors. Alfred had been so afraid for his son that to know his son’s greatest fears in this all was getting in trouble with his tutors was such a relief that he couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“That…that sounds very much like him. Is that when you knew then?”

 

Ivar shook his head, he was looking away from Alfred, head tilted towards the wall, “No. I went to take him to one of those guards you keep on me so that they could deal with him. The boy told me to take him to his father though, told me that he was king—that’s when I knew.”

 

Alfred tilted his head down, guilty suddenly. Perhaps this was because of the way Ivar spoke without inflection, the way he spat the word king, the way he refused to look at Alfred. It all reminded Alfred of nights touched by sunlight and days plagued by the cold. It reminded him of broken promises and spilt wine.

 

“I’m surprised you helped him at all, once you heard.” Alfred studied the marks in the stones, gaze trained on them and how the creeping sunlight played at the edges of the floor and how Alfred did not feel any safer in the shadows, and that perhaps he stayed in them only because they were familiar.

 

With a careless shrug, Alfred saw in his peripheral, Ivar tilted his head towards Aethelweard, “He was not afraid of me.”

 

“Aethelweard is not afraid of anything,” The truth in the words brought a nostalgic grin to Alfred’s face, he relaxed his shoulders and looked up towards his son. “He loves the Northmen—I’ve no idea why. We’ve been at war with them since before his birth, but I’d reckon that Aethelweard wouldn’t shed a tear if it was the Danes who won the war. He knows of you too.” now Alfred looked at Ivar who had the most startled expression on his face. Alfred explained, “Both my sons heard stories of Ivar-the-Boneless who conquered Dublin. That’s all they know of you. I think they see you as a hero, like in the epics their nurses tell them.”

 

“I am no hero.” Ivar was under no illusions now of what his lust for war made him. Before, in the past, Alfred always thought that Ivar was disillusioned—that he saw himself as some sort of champion or god amongst his people, that he saw the death and destruction he caused as a holy power—now Ivar spoke like he was certain he was the harbinger of destruction, a god of death powerless of their own capabilities and lust.

 

“They’re just boys,” Alfred rolled Ivar’s words over in his head _I am no hero_. He kept his tone light, not dwelling on the phrase more than he already had, “They can find heroism in most anything. You’ve certainly not dissuaded that now. Aethelweard, I imagine, will never forget the day when the fearsome Ivar-the-Boneless saved his life.”

 

Ivar made a face and rolled his eyes. It was an exaggeration, but one that Alfred was certain Aethelweard would interpret. He was just a child, after all, their imaginations were very wide and healing a broken arm was nearly equivalent to saving the life when the person in question was an adventurous boy.

 

“I won’t forget it either.” And Alfred truly should have just let the moment pass, but he could not stop himself from speaking, “What you did for him. You had no reason to be as kind as you were. Whatever else happens, you must know that I am forever grateful for what you have done for me.”

 

The contemptful expression returned and Ivar gave a spitting twist of his lips, head tilted towards the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair, “Do not say things to me that you do not mean.”

 

It was too close to an illusion of the drunken night from three days ago. It was spoken like cold steel against skin, pressing an icy cut to split flesh. Alfred wished that he could have blood drip from the wound to prove its existence, at least then there might have been a way to ease its sting, but as it was, the cut lay deep in the heart and there was no cure to its pain.

 

Alfred pressed his lips together and trained his eyes at the floor again. He tried to focus on the sound of Aethelweard’s steady breathing, but all he could hear was his own blood pumping through his ears.

 

Shame burned bright and Ivar felt both too close and impossibly far away. It would be so easy to speak the truth, to tell Ivar his every desire and want, to try and clutch the sun and feel its warmth for just a moment longer. But to what end? No matter what Alfred wanted, he was still king, he was still married, he was still a Saxon. And Ivar was a Northmen, a man who slaughtered Alfred’s family, who tore Wessex apart and made Alfred dream of chaos. What good would the truth do when there was nothing to be done about it? Why must Alfred be punished for seeing the world as it was and knowing his only choice was to live in it?

 

Alfred looked up, “Will you hold a grudge against me then?”

 

His voice was steady and quiet and yet the question echoed in the room. His eyes met Ivar’s, unrepentant sin and anger and hate dwelled beneath the blue surface, it did not for a moment scare Alfred off.

 

“Yes.” Ivar narrowed his gaze, his shoulders were tensed as he leaned forward, a challenge in his tone that told Alfred that Ivar expected him to end the conversation there.

 

Alfred had never considered himself defiant, but stubborn—that he would claim. “As much as you do not like it, I’ve done us both a favor. Or at least I’ve done myself one if nothing else. What can either of us offer to each other that isn’t best left untouched.”

 

“Is that how you see it?” Ivar mocked.

 

“That’s how it is.” Alfred spat defensively, leaning forward in his chair so much that he might have fallen out. He tossed up a hand, “You think that this is a world we have any control over? What sort of choice do you think I have, Ivar? I can’t choose this, I can’t choose you!”

 

Alfred fell silent and looked away. A few beats of silence passed before Alfred stood up and began pacing the length of the room.

 

“You sound like a coward.” Ivar asserted with a low growling voice.

 

“Then I’m a coward.” Alfred turned on his heels to face him, voice dripping with hate. “What difference does it make, because I am still not wrong. This is not the north, Ivar, this is not your world. This is mine, and I will not torment myself by pretending its anything other than what it is. This world does not give me what I want.”

 

“Then fucking take it!”

 

“Things don’t work like that!” Alfred shouted, anger seizing his body. When the words echoed in the room, he looked to the table at his still sleeping son. It was reminder enough for both of them of how true Alfred’s words rang. A cold breath passed through his lungs and the fire in his chest was subdued. Alfred stared at the wall as he spoke, “There is a time and season for all things, Ivar, and if there was a time where I could have had the things I wanted, it has passed long ago.”

 

They did not speak, and Alfred did not tear his gaze away from the wall, even as he heard Ivar get up and stalk out of the room. There was nothing else to say. Words had spilt like wine and there was no taking them back.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theres going to be more than 10 chapters, I've finally figured out my ending and i think we're looking at about 15. 
> 
> This chapter was a little depressing--i promise the next one will be better.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

If it was possible, Alfred would have banished himself from the kingdom.

 

This was because it was equally impossible to have Ivar leave Wessex, not while the other man was still charged with building the remainder of Alfred’s navy. Even the court was taking more of a liking to Ivar, or at least they were seeing his use and weren’t so eager to have him and the Northmen thrown from the gates. There were now fifteen ships to Wessex’s navy, and with every ship the confidence of the kingdom grew, to ask Ivar to leave amidst it all was impossible.

 

But it was impossible for Alfred to survive Ivar either. Every day had become a new torture—a new circle of hell Alfred had to bear. Ivar was intent on acting like the two of them were strangers to each other. In a way that made everything else worse. Anger, Alfred could bear. Hatred, contempt, vengeance, or loathing, all those things Alfred would have taken as penance for his actions, but indifference? It was a new sort of punishment.

 

The next few days passed like a sort of nightmare, or perhaps like the world Alfred should have lived in all along. Feasts with the court passed without Ivar ever glancing his way. Ivar spent them laughing with his men, whispering into the ear of his shadow, Olaf, or with a woman saddled close to him. Ivar only ever came to council meetings that concerned the navy and in those he kept a disinterest in any matter that did not directly affect him and when he did speak it was with a casual ease that ended quickly and went unmarked by all. This was unusual compared to the hissing laughs and dancing eyes Alfred usually tolerated during the meetings and he found himself missing all of it.

 

When Ivar trained with the soldiers in the yard or worked with the carpenters it was even worse. Every day the weather grew warmer, and the Northmen had no qualms fighting both shirtless and without armor. This was suffice to say that Alfred avoided these areas as much as he could. It was not always avoidable though, and there were many days where Alfred had to watch the army train and pretend that it wasn’t Ivar’s chorded muscles and defined frame that he didn’t see his eyes going back to. There were several new tattoos that covered his chest that hadn’t been there ten years ago, and Alfred did not dwell on a single one of them. This was a challenge since it was during these practices that Ivar would wave Alfred over and ask something about Saxon strategy and whether or not Alfred really wanted his soldiers to train in a defensive or offensive matter with the Northmen.  

 

It was exactly what Alfred should have wanted—the indifference that is. Ivar had become nothing more than some Northmen ally and Alfred should have been relieved that Ivar was acting like their last argument or the kiss never happened, but he wasn’t. He was angry; frustrated that Ivar was punishing him in this way, upset that it seemed so easy for him to do so, and hateful that he wasn’t happier that Ivar was.

 

It came as no surprise that Eahlswith was the one to notice and comment on this, “You have been staring at him for the last several minutes.”

 

She spoke lowly so as to only be heard by him. It woke Alfred up from his angry daze and he quickly tore his eyes away from Ivar to pretend that nothing had been happening. They were at a small feast, not a big affair like the last one, but one Alfred had to attend none the less. All the Northmen were gathered in the hall too, Ivar among them. His shadow, Olaf, was by his side, whispering in Ivar’s ear, making the other man laugh and reach for his ale and drink heartily.

 

It all had to be on purpose. Ivar never laughed so much, he never smiled so easily. This had to have been by design, something to get under Alfred’s skin and aggravate him—another punishment Ivar was serving to get back at Alfred for his rejection.

 

“No, I haven’t.” Alfred reached for his water and drank. Now it was Eahlswith who was staring.

 

“He looks happy. That is strange. I’ve not seen him laugh this much before, but I do believe he is drinking more than he usually has. I do not think you are staring at him because you think it is strange though.”

 

“I’m not staring at him at all.” Alfred glanced at her and grimaced. It was not a very convincing lie as he had been caught in the act of which he was accused.

 

Eahlswith lifted a brow and hummed as she took a drink. Her gaze slid away and spread across the hall. She'd been unusually absent for the last few days, having taken an unplanned trip to an abbey in the countryside to help the clergy there as they fortified themselves for an attack when the Danes returned. The trip took longer than it needed to and Alfred wondered how much of that had to do with the fact that Eahlswith had been accompanied by the Gaini during the journey. She returned from it in better spirits than Alfred had last seen her, which was a relief amidst everything else.

 

Eahlswith set her cup down, “You know, he does still stare at you too.”

 

Alfred hedged his shoulders. He did not want to speak more on this, especially as he knew how very wrong Eahlswith was and how very bitter he was because of it. “He does not.”

 

“He does. Not as much as I recall he did before, but he still does. Right now, for example, as you are looking at me, I can see him glancing over at you.”

 

Alfred turned sharply, and instinct really, but when he looked Ivar, Ivar was looking away. Looking at his shadow, actually, who was throwing an arm over the other man’s shoulders and laughing at something Alfhilda had said. Alfred glowered as he turned back towards Eahlswith, who gave a causal roll of her eyes.

 

“You shouldn’t have looked.” She scolded him, “He knows you too well. When you look at him, he looks away, and he knows how it bothers you.”

 

“He doesn’t know me at all.”

 

Eahlswith scoffed, it was light and teasing, but just darkened Alfred’s mood even more. “Don’t grimace like that—. He knows you well enough to know that your eyes find him as easily as his always find yours. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so upset by the fact that he isn’t the one burning a gaze into your soul—I used to think it was that which bothered you, but now you’re acting like it’s an offense that he does not behave like you’re a shining light in a world of darkness.”

Alfred shook his head—he was certain his face was red, both in embarrassment and shame—he slouched further down in his chair and ground his teeth together. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

 

Eahlswith shrugged, and it was now this indifference that surprised Alfred. He sat up a little straighter to look at her. The comment was given offhandly, but now Alfred was realizing that it was true. Eahlswith was on her third cup of wine and had a rosy glow to her cheeks and a light dip to her eyelids. None of this seemed to bother her in the least and she carelessly reached forward for another drink of wine.

 

“Eahlswith,” Alfred moved to push her cup away from her grasp. He gave her a concerned look, “Perhaps, that is enough.”

 

Eahlswith gave a heavy sigh and sat back without protest. She watched the room again, eyes dragging slowly against the celebrating bodies and rakish laughter. A pout on her lips which grew deeper as she did.

 

“They are all so happy.” She said, words spoken without thought or restraint. She tipped her chin at the hall and Alfred sat beside her quietly. He was concerned, warily waiting for Eahlswith to say something else, and already thinking of what he could do to fix the sound of longing that laced each of her words. “Look at them laugh, look at them be in love. How easily they all breath and live and _feel_. Can you remember the last time you felt? Truly, Alfred think about it—when did you last feel so strongly that you could hardly stand to breathe?”

 

Always, constantly, that’s how Alfred felt. It was unbearable, it was painful, it was hell. But Alfred knew what Eahlswith meant, because he could remember a time when all he felt was a numb cold and that was a sort of hell of its own too.

 

Eahlswith took in a deep breath that lifted her chest and she let it out in a slow drag. “You think they know how lucky they all are to belong? Not as a possession but as a…as a soul. I don’t think I’ve ever had that, I think I’m a ghost sometimes, not seen, not heard, not wanted nor loved…I want to be wanted, I want to be seen, I want to be heard. I want to be in love. I don’t think I’m made for that, Alfred, I don’t think my soul was ever meant for another. The only time I am happy is when I am with the Gaini, but I do not belong with them, and I do not belong here, and I do not belong anywhere else.”

 

“Eahlswith—” Alfred moved to touch her, but Eahlswith moved her hand away. Alfred drew back.

 

“Don’t pity me, Alfred,” She tilted her head towards him, a dull thrum to her voice, “I’ll grow used to it again soon; sometimes it is just difficult to…to remember, to feel so close to it all and know that it has to disappear. I know my place. I know I am your wife. The sooner my father’s people leave the sooner I can forget about belonging and things will go back to as they were before.”

 

“I don’t want that,” Alfred spoke carefully, in their years together, Eahlswith had never spoken like this before. It was a new kind of honesty, the painful kind that bled like an open wound. “I want you to be happy.”

 

Eahlswith lifted a brow, “How can I be happy when my heart has pieces spread across the earth? My soul beats with the Gaini, but my spirit rests with my children here in court. I will tear myself in half trying to be happy, Alfred. It’s a dangerous thing.” She reached a hand forward for her cup, but shut her eyes and paused. Her body shuttered as she took in another breath and, slowly, she pulled her hand to her side and opened her eyes again, “I’m tired. I think I’ll take my leave for the night, you should do the same soon.”

 

Eahlswith rose to her feet and Alfred moved a hand to steady her, but she was already walking away. He was left alone, a quiet body within the loud, echoing hall, thinking about the dangers of being happy, the safety of being numb, and the lonesome pain that accompanied all of it.

 

 

 

That same carried on for the rest of the night. Alfred could have left the feast hours ago, but he found himself bound to his seat, jaw clenched as he watched Ivar from the shadows across the room and thought of everything Eahlswith had said.

 

He should go to her chambers and check on her. Eahlswith shouldn’t have been alone right now, she shouldn’t have to be, and if Alfred even served as the illusion of husband, he wouldn’t have let her. But he stayed in his seat, and he thought, and as the hours passed his mood only darkened and each laugh he caught echoing across the hall was like an arrow to the chest.

 

As the hours of the moon waned and the festivities of the feast were moving out of the hall and diverging to each individual’s path, Alfred waved his guard over and asked that someone would be sent to check on Eahlswith. As he gave the command he paused.

 

“Are the Gaini tribesmen still in the city?” Alfred had seen them readying to depart from Wessex that afternoon, shortly after they returned with Eahlswith from the abbey. In the past hours, they couldn’t have covered that much ground.

 

The guard went to consult with another, who told Alfred that the Gaini had left Wessex before the sun had started to set. Alfred tapped his ring finger on the table as he considered this. The guards were both still standing before him waiting for some sort of dismissal, they shared tentative glances at each other as if both equally confused why Alfred had inquired about the Gaini. Eahlswith was not wrong when she had said that the Gaini had no place in Wessex’s court. The tribesmen were not enemies of Wessex or the other Saxon kingdoms, but it had not been so many years since they had been. The stigma of the savage, heathen Gaini still carried through and had been even more severe, up until the Northmen began attacking the Saxon kingdoms. After that, there was a new enemy that occupied everyone’s mind. A new people to hate.

 

How impossible was it to belong to two worlds, constantly tearing yourself apart to exist in both? It was so much easier to belong to neither; to give up claim on any world and exist without tether. How lonely that was too; how wretched. How much worse was it then to let yourself touch the sun and then know you will have to let it go, return to the cold, return to the darkness. Those cosmologies belonged to gods— traversers between worlds, acting without consequences to the chaos their footsteps caused. A king was not a god.

 

“Your majesty—”

 

Alfred looked up, suddenly remembering his audience. He cleared his throat, “Thank you, sirs. I won’t require your assistance for the remainder of the evening. You may take your leave.”

 

The guards shared glances again, but they had already lost Alfred’s attention. He was staring at the other side of the hall, at the laughter, the happiness, the _belonging_ of the Northmen. Is that what he and Eahlswith missed? Looking at the Northmen it seemed that they were all of one unit, one family. Alfred could hardly remember what having a whole family was like. Had it been so comfortable? So easy? With the Northmen it seemed that with each exhale the others remembered to breath—how good would it be to have a people who reminded you that you had to exist?

 

It must have been the same with the Gaini. Eahlswith must have spent the last few days with them and gotten intoxicated with the familiarity and longing to be a part of a body. She let herself touch the sun and basked in its warmth, but when she fell to earth she was left burning. It was a blessing then that Alfred could not remember if he had ever felt so at home with something. Once, when he was younger after his father and brother died, Alfred had felt the burn of loss, he had tasted how terrible it was to care for something and lose it. It was not a feeling Alfred wanted to ever experience again, even if that meant he never grow close enough to anything that it could hurt him. It was better to be a stranger to the world than to be an exile of it. Better to never touch the sun at all than let it burn you.

 

Did that make him a coward?

 

The laughter in the hall echoed again and Alfred’s eyes narrowed in on Ivar amongst his people. Once so hated, now he seemed to be the beating heart of the body. Was the credit to his own exile from his original people up north, or just evidence of how at peace with his existence Ivar had become in the past years? A man who once attempted to murder his own brother became the man who helped the child of his enemies. There was an unholy reckoning about Ivar’s every breath, but he was not at all the demon the Saxons painted him to be.

 

The laughter though, that might be a curse. How could Alfred still hear it all the way from where he sat? Why did it have to grate at the corners of his mind? Why did it have to be accompanied by such easy, careless smiles, and an arm around the shadow who spoke in Ivar’s ear? Why did Alfred have to be punished for saving himself from being burned?

 

The guards were gone by the time Alfred looked up again. That was for the best, Alfred did not want to be followed by them tonight. Tonight, Alfred wanted everything to be like the time before he was king. The time before he really understood what it was like to stand between two worlds and know that you mustn’t ever let yourself belong to either of them.

 

Strangely enough, Alfred wanted to return to the marshlands. The refuge his family hid in after the castle had been destroyed and before the war with the Heathen Army had really struck. Alfred hated thinking back on those months; hated the clinging fog, the icy cold, the humid air sticking to sweat and dirt covered skin. But at least in those months, Alfred had a father, he had a mother, he had a brother. Alfred had a heart clinging to every pulse, and a name no one knew. Back then, the only choice he had to make was to take another breath.

 

It was impossible to go back there, but maybe Alfred could fall into some deep sleep and return for a little while; maybe this time he would learn to value the freedom his choicelessness had supplied.

 

He was winding through the halls, taking some long, rarely used path and relying on instinct and memory to take him to his destination. Alfred thought little of where each step was taking him. He was too busy thinking about choice, about unhappiness, about why he mustn’t ever touch the sun.

 

There was more laughter. The arrow hit the bone and Alfred looked to the open courtyard he was crossing towards. It was the same courtyard as the one Alfred had seen the Northmen in a month ago, and now they were in a very similar configuration.

 

Alfhilda and Knute were sitting on the grass, not fighting as before, but just talking. Alfhilda was holding something in her hand and showing it to him, and the few unrecognizable Northmen who were also there came to look at it too. There were about two other Northmen standing near Olaf who was telling some story. He had a vicious grin that mirrored too much of the kind Ivar once had years ago. That was their only similarity though, Olaf’s white hair and rounded features made him look too young, too soft. The man was certainly dangerous, but it was the sort of danger that had to be proved. Ivar’s was always inborn.

 

And Ivar. He was standing with Olaf and the two others, listening to the story that was being told. Alfred felt the tick of annoyance when he saw how close they were both standing, or maybe just how close Olaf was standing to Ivar and how Ivar just didn’t seem to mind. This approval was just making Olaf all the more animate, even more aggravating really. Alfred honestly tried not to have negative impressions of his guests, but it was beginning to become a difficult task. Olaf was already a rather snakish fellow, now that he had this sort of close endorsement by Ivar, he had eagerly begun to ooze the foul charm.

 

Alfred should have continued walking. It wasn’t as if he had been seen, and it wasn’t as if he wanted to stand in the cold breezeway watching the Northmen congregate with each other. What Alfred wanted was to forget about the Northmen, to forget about Ivar, to forget about laughter and belonging and _sleep_.

 

Then Olaf looked over to Ivar, who gave another lazy grin as a reply to something he said in the story, and Olaf just preened. Affection just given away so freely, _accepted_ so freely, all done so meaninglessly on Ivar’s part like none of his actions ever had any sense. And it was all given with the weight of a feather, while Alfred had boulders dragging him to the depths of the ocean from all the choices he had to make.

 

Ivar went to stretch his arms and as he did his gaze swept across the courtyard and paused on Alfred who he saw in the breezeway. Weightless, meaningless, they went to look elsewhere, but Alfred’s eyes narrowed and he did not break their gaze.

 

The simple matter of this was that Alfred was too tired, too aggravated, too angry to tolerate any more of these games. Alfred couldn’t even say what the games were, but Ivar was surely playing them and their purpose was surely to punish Alfred for the decisions he had made. After the too long night, after the weight of all of Eahlswith’s pain and sadness, after weeks spent preparing for a war, Alfred was tired of tolerating his impotence.

 

With Ivar now looking at him, Alfred jerked his chin, silently ordering the other man to meet him. Ivar’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful annoyance is what they might have held.

 

Without making much show of it, Ivar patted one of his companions on the back and crossed the courtyard. He was taking his time and Alfred felt the pinch of irritation rise as he went to the archway of the courtyard and waited for him. Alfred waited deep in the hallway, not wanting to be seen by the Northmen and have an audience. As annoyed as he was with all of this, Alfred didn’t have any interest in sparking rumors of instability with the Northmen. It was not them Alfred had a problem with, it was Ivar, and there was no reason that this problem couldn’t be resolved with minimal notice.

 

Ivar hardly entered the hall before Alfred forgot all his political refinements and hissed. “What have you been doing?”

 

Ivar lifted his eyebrows. His eyes examined Alfred with vague judgment and didn’t give Alfred an answer until he was well into the hall, standing a few breaths from Alfred. It was too close and Alfred felt like a caged animal from it. Other than the stiff way Alfred now held his body, he wouldn’t let it show. Alfred’s own anger at least served as a decent distraction for the discomfort in it all.

 

“I’ve been giving you what you want.” He said, surveying Alfred’s anger like a man who held no guilt in the matter, though there was not a doubt that he didn’t know exactly what Alfred was talking about. As careless as Ivar seemed these last few days, he was just as aware of the shift between them as Alfred was. “You wanted nothing to do with me? You wanted me to pretend that you mean nothing to me? That is what I am doing. That is what you wanted.”

 

“This isn’t what I wanted.” Alfred guarded his tone.

 

“Then this is what you asked for.” Ivar had managed to come across as calm before, but there was a snarl to his words now. He shifted imposingly, like some sort of threat that was meant to tell Alfred that he ought to end the conversation now and walk away.

 

Alfred didn’t walk away, though. He didn’t move at all, maybe didn’t even breath. Anger and hate and pain were clouding his mind, but it was the feeling of cold that struck him deep. It would just keep spreading until his bones were laced with ice and his blood crystalized under blue skin. Alfred hated the cold, but wasn’t it what he asked for? Isn’t this the sensation he had been begging for—the cold, the indifference, the numb loss of feelings.

 

Wasn’t that what must be sacrificed to be king? Perhaps, living that way didn’t mean happiness, but one could grow content to that way of life, given time. Eahlswith had said the same; she told Alfred that given a little more time she would forget about all the things she wanted and find contentment with their lives again. What would that mean she would become? Contentment in this life did not mean being happy, it meant the resignation to let yourself turn into icy stone, a country on your back, and a title instead of a name. You become a symbol, an object, you have to give up your soul.

 

Is this what Alfred had asked for?

 

“That isn’t—” Alfred mouth felt dry, he had no defense, no ground to claim. He was standing on shifting sand, and when he looked into Ivar’s narrowed, burning eyes, he felt even the sand fall from beneath his feet.

 

Ivar was still waiting for an answer, but his patience ran out and he scoffed. He didn’t even look at Alfred, just shook his head. He was going to say something, Alfred could see the way Ivar mounted to speak some sort of biting remark, hiss an insult, do something to scare Alfred away. Ivar hadn’t been punishing Alfred at all. All this time he’d been trying to do him a favor. Even now, as Ivar readied to say something to drive Alfred further away, he was trying to give Alfred what he had asked for.

 

But this wasn’t what Alfred wanted. He didn’t want the cold, he didn’t want to exist in contentment, because it was safer than letting himself feel again. He didn’t want to be an exile in the world and never let it become his home. Alfred was tired as existing without a name or soul. He was tired of hiding from the sun.

 

Ivar’s lips curled in his snarl and he said, “How did you—"

 

Alfred didn’t let him finish. He reached his hand out and set it on the nape of Ivar’s neck and he pulled him forward into a kiss.

 

Touching the sun felt like this. 

Ivar’s lips were chapped, rough, taken off guard so that their teeth clashed together for the first second before he realized what was going on. One of Ivar’s hands fell back on the wall by Alfred’s head. The open palm crashed there like Ivar had reached out to hold it out for some sort of balance and it ended up boxing Alfred between the wall and him. With this, there came a moment of surprise, which gave Alfred the opportunity to deepen the kiss, shutting his eyes tight as he felt the drag of a tongue against his teeth. Ivar’s other hand reached for Alfred’s shirt, grabbing a handful of the fabric at the center of his chest and pulling him in.

 

The kiss broke. It must have been Alfred's doing. His breath came out in short pants as he tried to recall how his lungs were meant to take in air. His body was burning hot, head swimming, and then there was Ivar who looked at him with a startled fear. If it were not for the hand still fisted in his shirt, Alfred would think that Ivar might try and run away.

 

“Don’t—” Alfred shook his head, barely able to speak. He took a step forward and remembered the details of their last kiss, of the uncertainty and concern, and the broken promises. Alfred put his hand back on Ivar’s neck and breathed, “I’m not drunk, I’ve not had a drop. I’ve spent all evening agonizing about this. I fucking want this, Ivar. Don’t push me away now.”

 

He was begging. It was a desperate fearful plea because Ivar had every right to push Alfred away after all he had done. He shut his eyes and set his head against Ivar’s shoulder and he prayed that he wouldn’t feel the cold again so soon.

 

A hand touched his cheek, tilting it up and then Ivar’s mouth was on his again. It was slower, though no less desperate as the last one. Whatever skills Alfred lacked in this, Ivar made up for. Alfred was intoxicated by the taste of Ivar’s mouth, and he groaned as he felt Ivar’s hand on him. Alfred felt like he'd been waiting years for this feeling, and he wasn’t going to wait another moment to chase it.

 

Ivar pulled his mouth away, dragging Alfred’s bottom lip with him. Once parted, he gave him a serious look, “You aren’t taking this back again?”

 

“Does it look like I’m taking it back?” Alfred leaned up and to kiss him. It was short lived. Alfred looked around the hall, which was still empty, and knew it wasn’t going to stay that way forever. This was a compromising position to be caught in: skin flushed, mouth red, body pressed against another man’s. Ivar seemed to be thinking the same thing.

 

Dragging his eyes down Alfred one last time, Ivar leaned forward and caged Alfred back against the wall. This time his mouth was pressed against the shell of Alfred’s ear, breath hot and low as he spoke. “If you don’t want this, end it now. Because if you don’t, I’m not going to.”

 

Alfred shook his head. His eyes darted down the hall again to be sure that they were alone. It was late enough that the castle was asleep, and the only things that could be heard was the rustle of the wind at the breezeway and the Northmen distantly talking in the courtyard nearby, and then, of course, Ivar’s breath brushing past Alfred’s right ear, the gravely weight of the words that echoed over and over again in Alfred’s mind.

 

“This is what I want.” Alfred breathed and then Ivar’s was kissing him again, and Alfred did not think he could survive contentment after a feeling like this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happier chapter, as promised. To be fair, I got my bittersweet kicks at the beginning. 
> 
> Anyway, i hate writing sex scenes, but based on popular consensus I can try my best to give you guys one. So for future chapters if yall like it a little more graphic let me know bc i can try to accommodate 
> 
>  
> 
> the end is nigh! we're entering the last stages of this fic


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

They did not stay in the hall for much longer.

 

Alfred didn’t know what the plan was, he didn’t know where their kiss was supposed to lead, only that he had waited too long to just end it there. Ivar was in fervent, aggressive agreement on this matter, and it went without discussion that a bedroom would be their next destination.

 

That too, the implications of it all, were far too weighted for Alfred to consider rationally. Rationality would have dictated that Alfred end their night after the single kiss, rationality would have said that there was no kiss in the first place. Rationality had already lost and now Alfred was walking at Ivar’s side down the winding halls of the castle towards the guest chambers.

 

They kept a safe distance apart from each other, shoulders occasionally bumping into each other, or hands brushing against the other’s, as they walked. Each touch was like being licked by fire, and if it were not for the eyes of the castle guards who they would run across every so often, neither of them would have been able to keep it with just the occasional touches.  

 

Halfway to the chambers, after having passed one of the guards, Ivar grabbed Alfred’s hand and turned them into an alcove. Alfred’s back hit the stone wall, and the gasp was swallowed by Ivar, who’s hands were gripping him tightly, and who’s mouth was on his.

 

“Not here.” Alfred gasped when Ivar’s mouth went to suck bruises along his jaw. Alfred slapped his hand against Ivar’s shoulder to get his attention and repeated his words.

 

Ivar pulled off and nodded. He leaned forward to set one last hot kiss upon Alfred’s mouth before moving away completely and turning from the alcove and into the hall. Alfred head tipped back, resting against the cool stone. His heart was hammering in his chest— _what was he doing?_ This was a death wish and it wasn’t too late to take it back and pretend like none of this had ever happened.

 

Pushing off the wall, Alfred turned out of the alcove and saw that Ivar was already halfway down the hall. Alfred followed.

 

It took too long to get to Ivar’s rooms. Alfred’s skin was hot and the anticipation of it all was driving him insane. Hardly a moment after they stepped into the solace of the room, Alfred was reaching for Ivar and almost knocking them both over as he copied the same kiss Ivar had given him in the alcove.

 

Ivar’ laughed as he caught himself on the wall, and leaned into Alfred’s kiss. His hands were set on Alfred’s hips, slowly moving tight circles along the sharp bones there.

 

“Not here.” Ivar mimicked in Alfred’s ear, his breath coming out husky. Alfred wished he could have said something clever, or done something to make Ivar forget the order, but instead he just nodded and let Ivar pull him from the antechamber and into the bedroom.

 

Somewhere along the way, Alfred began kissing him again, and Ivar’s shirt was lost before the got to the bed. The blue tattoos stood out starkly on his scarred skin. Alfred studied them for a minute, while Ivar started to loosen the ties on the braces on his legs, doing so while leaning against the bed. It took Alfred a second to realize what he was doing, but when he did he took a step forward.

 

“Let me help—”

 

Ivar pushed his hands away, “I can do it.” He tone was final, and Alfred felt the impulse to draw back. Ivar looked up, face softening, but still said nothing else. Alfred understood though, Ivar didn’t need to explain why he’d rather be the one to take off his own leg braces, and why he still felt uncomfortable letting Alfred in, in that way.

 

When the braces were off, Ivar grabbed Alfred by the shirt, and with a hungry look, pulled him in. Alfred crashed into his chest with a laugh, smiling into the kiss, glad that he hadn’t ruined everything. As the kiss continued though, and Alfred started to feel the weight of the moment and the situation and the unfamiliar hungry desire that encompassed it all. Alfred began to think, which rarely worked in anyone’s favor in moments such as these.

 

It was all such an alien sensation. In everything in his life, Alfred had a plan, a course of action, some sort of prerequisite knowledge on the matter, but in this Alfred was completely lost.

 

He and Ivar were on the bed, his back pressed against the heavy covers and Ivar crowded against his front as they met with gnashing desperate lips in another heated kiss. The controlled distance from the halls was gone, and neither of them had the power to stop it. Ivar’s shirt was gone, his corded muscles against Alfred’s palms, lips were red, skin already burning at the touch. Alfred’s ignorance in all of this felt limiting, he felt very much like a stone being tossed around in the ocean—desperate for grounding, powerless in the cosmic force surrounding him.

 

That is what Ivar felt like—a cosmic force, a god bound to the flesh of a man. Power rippled under his skin, heated growls echoed like thunder and touch lit the skin like fire.

 

They were on the bed, Ivar hovered over Alfred bending down to kiss his lips, his neck, his chest, all the exposed parts of his body that he'd never imagined would be studied quite like this. Ivar's lips traced Alfred's collar bones, down his chest, tongue dragging. Alfred's breath stuttered, a blush spreading across his skin and he reached for Ivar's head to bring him back to his mouth towards ground where Alfred didn't feel quite so...cherished. Ivar batted Alfred's hand away, before grabbing onto his wrist on the second try and threading their fingers together and pushing Alfred's hand down onto the bed. Ivar's tongue caught over Alfred's nipple and he bit down, and Alfred could feel the smile against his skin when Ivar heard Alfred's swallowed gasp. 

Alfred felt his body arch up before he could stop himself and as Ivar moved on to map the rest of Alfred's skin, Alfred sat up and grabbed Ivar's face, bringing him into another kiss. It was a tactical kiss of course, and with Ivar distracted, Alfred rolled them so he was straddling Ivar’s waist. The position felt much more secure, for everyone Ivar wouldn’t need to strain his legs and Alfred felt some bit of safety and control from the angle, unlike before. He leaned down and met Ivar’s touch halfway.

This was another sort of exposure though. The cold air was startling as it hit Alfred's bare skin, but it was soon replaced again by Ivar’s touch and Alfred lost all thoughts. He felt calloused hands trail down his sides as they kissed, blunted nails digging into his skin as they grabbed. That feeling could not last forever though, and Alfred was once again aware that the hands holding his hips and digging into his skin were very different than any which had ever touched him before and there was no mask of duty or honor that Alfred could hide these acts behind. It was all just lust and want and Alfred did not know what that meant.

 

Alfred broke his mouth away, letting it hover over skin as he exhaled. He was tremoring, desperate and uncertain and in critical need for some kind of guidance or clarity. “What is it—what is it you want from me?”

 

Ivar had his mouth on his neck already, sucking a dark bruise there, “Everything.” He trailed his kiss up Alfred’s jaw. There was a blue abyss in his eyes as violent as the ocean, Ivar never wavered in the intensity, even when he shut his eyes and dragged Alfred into another kiss. He held him steady and whispered into his lips, “Stop thinking.”

 

Alfred nodded and returned the kiss—thoughtlessness was easy this way.

 

“You trust me?” Ivar asked him when they both broke for air again. Alfred wasn’t the only one who sounded desperate. The question was asked with an edge of vulnerability as if he didn’t already know that Alfred trusted Ivar intrinsically. This though, the vulnerability of having to ask the question and not know the answer reminded Alfred that Ivar wasn’t some uncontainable force at all, but a man, one that Alfred had known the soul of for years.

 

And yet, for a brief moment, Alfred thought that this was still his escape. This was his chance to back out, to go back to how things were before and never think of these moments again, save for dark lonely nights. Alfred could not lie and say that he felt no doubt, but one thing he did feel was trust--he felt that deeper than desire and he would not deny it.

 

“Of course.” Alfred told him and the truth was as easy to admit as breathing. It was dangerous, the things Ivar could have gotten Alfred to admit. With Ivar's mouth still on his skin and their bodies rutting against each other Alfred would have revealed anything if it meant that Ivar would continue to touch Alfred like he was.

 

Before Ivar could realize how compromised Alfred felt, he leaned down to press his lips against Ivar’s chest as Ivar had done to him before. The other man groaned, wrapping a hand in Alfred’s hair as he said something in Norse before repeating it again in English.

 

“Stop me now if you don’t want this.” Ivar groaned, as he pulled at the roots of Alfred’s hair that were still caught in his hand.

 

Alfred had no idea how he could better convince Ivar that this was exactly what he wanted, instead he tilted his mouth up and met his in a kiss and pressed his palm down on Ivar’s hard cock that was pressing against his hip as he straddled him. That was answer enough and Ivar reached up with a throaty groan and took control.

 

There were cold hands on flushed skin. Ivar dragged his palm down Alfred's side, dull nails burning his skin until the hand reached the top of Alfred's britches. Alfred's breath stuttered and his head fell onto Ivar's shoulder as Ivar's hand dipped below and grasped Alfred's cock. Callous hands rubbed the sensitive skin there and sent Alfred moaning as he rocked down onto Ivar's lap unthinkingly.

 

"Easy," Ivar's was just as breathless and his hand left Alfred's cock to hold his hips steady. A smile played on his lips, "You don't want me to think you're desperate for it."

 

"Shut up," Alfred groaned into his shoulder, his mouth pressed against the point where his neck began, "Please don't stop touching me."  
  


Ivar spoke again in Norse and Alfred didn't have the mind to translate it, though it sounded soft, nearly sweet. He thought of little else when Ivar started to unlace his britches and Alfred remembered what they were meant to be doing. His mouth felt dry when Alfred saw Ivar's hard cock, he took a shaky breath and suddenly Ivar was sitting up, running a hand up Alfred's back up towards his neck and kissing his again. 

 

"I won't mean to hurt you," Ivar breathed into Alfred's skin, and Alfred could feel the hard pressure of Ivar's cock pressed against his stomach and focused on Ivar's mouth and the way his hand still ran up Alfred's spine in a comforting gesture, "I won't mean to, but I might." he hesitated before continuing, "We don't have to do it this way--"

 

Alfred shook his head and pulled back so that Ivar was looking into his eyes. It was too late to be a coward now. "I want it this way." he rocked forward putting pressure on Ivar's cock and watching the way Ivar's hands dug into Alfred's skin, but he was still holding back, despite all his claims that he'd do the opposite. "If you keep treating me like I'm breakable, I might start getting offended."

 

And that had been the thing to say because Ivar huffed out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, dragging Alfred down with him. 

Alfred was not completely ignorant on these matters, though he often felt like he was. He knew well enough what two men could do with each other and he knew what he'd agreed to and with Ivar touching him and whispering those soft teases in English and those more desperate unbridled things in Norse, Alfred couldn't find it in him to worry about the pain he might feel from the act itself. 

Ivar was being patient, occupying himself with decorating Alfred's neck with primal marks as Alfred eased off his britches and readied himself.

 

"You've been with a man before?" Ivar asked, a little breathless as he saw what Alfred was doing. The tone, if it had not been for the heavily laden lust, might have sounded accusatory, though the hand on Alfred's hip read as possessive. 

 

Alfred shook his head, he had shut his eyes, trying to focus on Ivar's hands on him or where his lips used to be, rather than the intrusive pain he felt. 

 

"You've done this before then?" and Alfred couldn't answer because he was far too embarrassed to admit the truth that he had, though only once or twice and only when he'd been heavily intoxicated. The blush crawling down his chest gave him away and the hand on Alfred's hip tightened, "You have. Did you think of me when you did it?"  
  


"You," Alfred breathed as he moved his fingers, eyes squeezing tight, "Sound entirely too pleased with yourself."

 

Ivar was smiling as he kissed his shoulders, one hand moving lower down Alfred's back, "If you could see yourself now you wouldn't sound so priggish," he squeezed Alfred's flesh and moved his mouth towards his good ear, "It's alright, I thought of you too. Thought about you a lot longer than I think you've ever thought of me." Alfred ducked his head, burying it in Ivar's shoulder and groaned as he felt Ivar's rough fingers trace across Alfred's sensitive skin. Ivar continued to whisper into Alfred's ear, "Thought of you like this when we were just boys in that camp. I thought of how desperate for it you might be, how you might beg me for it, how you'd moan when I touched you in all those places you didn't think you'd ever be touched. I didn't think it'd ever be real. I didn't think you'd ever be this beautiful."

 

Alfred removed his finger and groaned into Ivar's neck, "I'm ready, come on."

 

Alfred could feel Ivar's frantic heartbeat in his chest, "You've got to go longer--"  
  


"You've been thinking about this entirely too long," Alfred said in an act of desperation and need, "Come on and fuck me already."

 

And so Ivar did. It was nothing like Alfred anticipated. He had known it would burn, that it might hurt, but he hadn't thought it would feel this raw. While Ivar might have been holding himself back before, he wasn't now and Alfred lost what control he might have had before, and he couldn't imagine that he missed it. Each touch brought back a gasp, lungs clinging to air and desperate to be filled with the taste of another’s lips. Alfred closed his eyes and dug his nails into Ivar’s back, dragging them down the sun spotted skin as he let out a breathy groan.

 

It was like being lost, being drunk, being sightless and without all other senses save for touch. It had never been this way before—it had always been so cold, so resigned. Sex had been a responsibility. This was nothing like that. It wasn’t responsibility, it was recklessness. 

It burned like fire, it tasted of heedless danger. Alfred was addicted to it—it was stronger than any wine or ale or drug. Alfred was lost in it, and it was not nearly as terrifying to be lost in the waves of the ocean as he thought. There was a freedom in losing that control.

 

 

 

 

The sun filtered through the window that sat high above the bed.

 

Alfred always slept with the blinds drawn closed, but then again, this was not his room and he was not laying in his bed and the light that came through the glass and metal panes, was not from his window.

 

He kept his eyes shut, feeling the warmth from the sunlight brush over his skin. In that moment his mind was blissfully empty. Concerns, consequences, thoughts, and reason were nowhere to be found. Only quiet. Only peace.

 

The arm that was drawn around his waist tightened and drew Alfred closer to Ivar’s chest. Lips pressed against the nape of Alfred’s neck, unmoving and content in their place. It could never last long, this was not eternal rest and with each of Alfred’s breaths, he became more aware that when he opened his eyes the peace would break and his grasp on the sun would break and he would fall back to earth. For a moment longer though, Alfred kept his eyes closed and breathed.

 

“Are you going to run?”

 

Alfred kept his eyes pressed shut, “Are you?”

 

Ivar murmured something into Alfred’s neck that he wasn’t meant to understand. Alfred was glad that Ivar couldn’t see the grin on his face, as Ivar groused the half-formed quip into his skin. The breath was warm, familiar, and Alfred’s smile slipped away knowing that the feeling couldn’t last forever. He would open his eyes and enter the world again and these moments would turn into dreams.

 

“Stop thinking.” Ivar grumbled, voice still thick from sleep, coming out slower, rougher.

 

Alfred grimaced, “I’m not.” Then, he remembered last night and felt his skin grow warm. He shifted in Ivar’s arms wondering if the distance would make the waking up any easier.

 

Ivar’s grip tensed. Alfred could feel the sudden rigidity flow through Ivar’s muscles as he felt Alfred pulling away. For a second it hurt, but then it was let go and it was Ivar who was moving away.

 

First his arm, which let Alfred go, and then Ivar was rolling onto his back, head titled up at the ceiling. The separation had Alfred feeling the chill of the morning air. He heaved a quiet sigh and let his eyes open.

 

The room had a warm light casting over the bed. The covers were disheveled and lay loosely and clumsily over Alfred’s waist. He let his gaze linger around his side of the room, taking note of each item that stood out from the rest that Ivar must have brought here with him.

 

“Why haven’t you left yet?” Ivar asked, a defensive edge tainting the words. The soft warmth of them that had been present before was gone, instead, they were readying for battle.

 

Alfred shifted so that he was sitting up. The sheet stayed about his waist as he leaned against the wooden frame of the bed, he tilted his head to glance at Ivar. “Do you want me to leave?”

 

Ivar narrowed his eyes and rolled them. He snorted, “You ask fucking stupid questions.” Then, without prompt, Ivar leaned forward and grabbed the back of Alfred’s neck before pulling him in a deep, shambolic kiss. It took Alfred off guard, but he sank into it all the same, feeling empty when Ivar ended it abruptly and pushed him away. “You can leave now.”

 

Alfred blinked, mouth opening as he tried not to balk, “That’s all you wanted?”

 

“You’ve given me what I wanted.” Ivar shrugged a shoulder, body still held tense. He glanced over at Alfred, eyes falling still on the dark purple marks on Alfred’s collar bone and neck. He licked his lips, “Remember?”

 

Alfred stared at him, before shaking his head and shoving Ivar’s shoulder. “You’re such an arse.”

 

But he didn’t leave the bed and Ivar relaxed. Had that been another one of Ivar’s tests? Another opportunity he gave Alfred to escape and pretend this never happened? Alfred couldn’t tell, he only knew that he had no plans on running away now.

 

Ivar brought a hand forward once a silent peace had lapsed between them. He rested it on Alfred’s collar, thumb digging into one of the bruises he stared at before.

 

“Does that hurt?”

 

Alfred shifted under the touch, unsure if he was moving away or moving closer. “It does when you press into it like that.”

 

Ivar let up on the touch, but kept his hand on Alfred, tracing the marks for another moment longer. “Why haven’t you left?”

 

Now Alfred did move away, shifting so that Ivar’s hand fell from him and Alfred brought a knee to his chest, letting his arms hang around it.

 

“Stop asking me that question.” Alfred hedged his shoulders and stared down at the disheveled covers, and the fallen clothes on the floor. He felt sore from the night before and weary of the conversation now.

 

“Shouldn’t you go to your little temple and pray?” Ivar needled, “Go find your little wife and forget about me?”

 

Alfred glared as he looked over his shoulder and met Ivar’s eyes, “Now it really does sound like you want me to leave.”

Ivar grimaced. He stubbornly stayed in his place for another passing heartbeat, before pushing himself up and reaching an arm around Alfred and pulling him back down on the bed. Like the kiss, this took Alfred by surprise. He let out a breath when his back hit the bed and felt Ivar’s lips meet his neck.

 

“Shut up.” Ivar growled before Alfred had even thought to formulate a question.

 

Alfred did, for a while. He let Ivar hold him like this, bodies pressed together, Ivar’s face pressed into his neck, breath steady like he might fall back to sleep. It was the attempt at bridging peace again, at trying to forget that they both knew that all of this was temporary.

 

“You know that it’s not called a temple.” Alfred said offhandedly, after playing the last few moments over in his head again.

 

Ivar’s groan reverberated against Alfred’s neck, “Shut up.”

 

Alfred rolled his eyes, and hesitated before continuing, “Is that what you call yours? Temples?”

 

“We do not have them like you do,” Ivar still said against Alfred’s chest, finally he pushed himself up and looked at Alfred. He looked at Alfred’s inquisitive face and realized that Alfred was genuinely interested now. He rolled his eyes and went to lay on his back. “There are sacred places where my people go to acknowledge the gods. We call them _friò-garòar_. They are not permanent structures like your churches, they can be made anywhere.”

 

Alfred leaned back on the bed as he listened, “What happens at these places?”

 

Ivar shrugged, his eyes were shut, face impassive like once this conversation was over he might try and find sleep again. His hands were resting on his stomach, head pushed back on a pillow; Alfred struggled to think of a time where he’d ever seen a person look so at peace.

 

“Many things. Not always holy; if two people had a problem with another they may go there to duel, or sometimes it is where laws were passed. They are not much like your churches at all. Something closer might be Uppsala.”

 

“Uppsala?” Alfred repeated the word, and Ivar cracked open one of his eyes. He nodded before shutting them again. “What is that?”

 

“A temple. The closest thing to a home of the gods that I can remember.”

 

“What happens there?” Alfred, despite all his studies, knew very little about the paganist beliefs of the Northmen. He had heard some awful things about it, but it was impossible to separate fact and rumor, and Alfred doubted that their religion was as horrible as speculations swayed him to believe.

 

Ivar made a low humming sound in the back of his throat as he considered the question. “I was young when I went. Floki—my father’s friend took me there for the vernal equinox.” He shrugged, at the memory, but it was not done as easily as before, “It is difficult to get to—in the mountains. We stayed several weeks there.” He opened his heavily lidded eyes again and tilted his head towards Alfred to be sure that he was still watching him. “In the days leading up to the end of it people spent the nights drinking, staunched with hallucinogens. They went bare chested in the night, both men and women, sycophantic for the gods, drunk with lust. They would openly fuck each other in the earth.”

 

Alfred looked away and cleared his throat. He felt his face growing red. “You said you went to this as a child?”

 

Ivar waved it off dismissively, “This was all in preparation for the last nine days. During the last nine, the _gothi_ took the sacrifices, one of each kind and slaughtered them for gods. After that we drank of the blood and gave our last prayer to the gods and left.”

 

Alfred balked, unsure which point to address first, “Sacrifices?”

 

“Hmm? Yes, seventy-two had to be killed throughout the nine days.”

 

“Animals?”

 

Ivar opened his eyes and arched a brow, “and men. Does that frighten you? Isn’t it your god who makes you eat his flesh and drink his blood?”

 

“That is…” Alfred shook his head at the comparison, trying to keep the roll of disgust in his stomach at bay. “a _metaphor._ It’s not the same at all.”

 

“Sounds similar to me.” Ivar muttered, before continuing, “Is this what you want to talk about? The gods? I can think of better things to do.” Ivar sat up, grabbing Alfred’s wrist and trying to pull him forward. Alfred recognized the hunger in his eyes.

 

Alfred shook his head, “Not now.” He titled his head away so that Ivar could not kiss him.

 

Ivar paused. He grabbed Alfred’s chin and forced him to face him. Ivar’s brows were drawn together critically as he studied him with closed concern. “Did I hurt you?”

 

Alfred pushed his hand away and sat back, “I’m fine.”

 

“You aren’t.”

 

“ _I am._ ” Alfred insisted, pushing away the hand Ivar tried to set on his shoulder. He saw the look of hurt cross Ivar’s face and Alfred sighed as he thought of how to explain, “You realize that this isn’t eternal, don’t you?”

 

Ivar frowned. He moved so that he was sitting up too, arms brushing Alfred’s as they next to each other. “You said you didn’t want to talk about leaving.”

 

“I don’t. I just—” Alfred sighed, pressing his lips together as he thought. “How much longer can we pretend that when the sun finishes rising all of this has to be dismissed as a dream?”

 

“Is that what you plan to do?” Ivar’s face darkened and he drew away, “Pretend this was a dream? How do you plan to explain away those bruises? How do you plan on pretending that you didn’t let me—”

 

“Will you calm down?” Alfred growled, wrapping his arms around his knees, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that this isn’t something that can realistically continue and we both know it. It has an end date whether that is by the end of the morning or a month from now when the ships have finished being built. You’ve told me that you are going back to Dublin, do you expect me to go with you? Or do you plan on staying here now? Give up your kingdom, everything you worked for, and for what? What more can we give each other than last night?”

 

“It doesn’t just have to be last night.” Ivar put his hand on Alfred’s covered leg, but Alfred shifted and moved it away.

 

“Then another day, another morning; the point is its going to end.” Alfred shook his head bitterly, “You can hate it, but when you leave me, I’ll have to pretend this never happened.”

 

Ivar was silent. He moved his hand away and leaned back against the bed frame, an irritated expression on his face. “Are you always so dour in the morning?”

 

“Can you at least pretend to listen to me?” Alfred hissed.

 

“I don’t see the problem,” Ivar shifted so that they were facing each other again, “We both know what we want, why are we letting anything stop us?”

 

“So, you haven’t been listening to me.”

 

“I’ve been listening. What’s the issue? You think I want to go back to fucking pile of shit in Dublin? You think I’d give a fuck about the wars I’ve won, or the people there?”

 

Alfred’s brow wrinkled, “You’d give up your kingdom for this?”

 

“Yes.” Ivar scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “What do I have there that holds me to it?”

 

Again, Alfred shook his head, “You’re acting like it’s that simple. You’ve got responsibilities, Ivar. People who rely on you. They expect you to go back to Dublin, to be king. What are you here? I can’t give you what you want, and is this what you want? To live in Wessex’s court with people you hate? For us have to be indifferent to each other every day just for a few hours at night? That’s not a life.”

 

Ivar was getting irritated now. What Alfred said had struck a chord and he knew that he was right. It wasn’t something either of them wanted to hear, but it had to be said.

 

“This is why I told you to shut up.” Ivar growled, “I told you to stop thinking and you don’t fucking listen. Why do you have to be so difficult?”

 

“I’m being realistic.” Alfred held, “And I don’t have to listen to you when you never listen to me. I’m telling you the truth, I’ve been telling you it since the beginning and you’re the one who’s been dismissing it this entire time, acting like I’m the impossible one. I warned you that this couldn’t go anywhere.”

 

“I fucking know that already,” Ivar snapped, looking away and folding his arms.

 

“This is pointless,” Alfred breathed, moving towards the end of the bed. He was frustrated and angry and unsure what he was most angry and frustrated at. Time mostly, the kingdom maybe, the crown he had to wear and the role he had to play and the impossible nature of his desires.

 

Ivar grabbed his hand before Alfred left the bed. “You’re leaving?”

 

“Shouldn’t I?” Alfred moved his hand away, but didn’t leave the bed. He sat near the edge, hands gripping the edge of the blanket around him as he considered his own question.

 

“No.” Ivar grimaced, bringing his hand back to his side, “Stay.”

 

Alfred raised his eyebrows, making a show of pointing out how tedious it all was, but went to sit back on the bed again, closer to Ivar this time, but compared to how that had been when they first woke up it was like a chasm was between them.

 

“If you hate Dublin so much, why don’t you go back home to Kattegat?”

 

Ivar slid his eyes towards him and looked like he was about to rescind the request of asking Alfred to stay. “You already know why I can’t.”

 

“Then why don’t you go to a kingdom there that your brothers wouldn’t find you at?”

 

“You think a cripple like me is going to go unnoticed?” Ivar scornfully spat, “I’m not going back there. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

 

And that truthfully always confused Alfred. Even with Ivar having tried to kill his brother, Alfred found it hard to imagine that after all these years he wouldn’t return and find forgiveness. In the last ten years, Ivar had changed so much, no longer the hateful soul that had caused the divide among his people. Surely his brothers would see that and accept him again.

 

“You could be happy there.” Alfred spoke quietly, knowing his words wouldn’t likely be well received. “Your brother would have forgiven you after all these years.”

 

“It’s not even about that.” Ivar shook his head, before giving a low glance in Alfred’s direction. He sighed. “I made a promise to Hvitserik that I would never go back, I’ve no reason to break it.”

 

Alfred paused, leaning in subconsciously, “What was the promise?”

 

Ivar laid back on the bed and shut his eyes. “You remember when you were released from my camp those years ago?”

 

“What are you trying to say?”

Ivar sighed; letting his eyes open, he shifted uncomfortably, prolonging Alfred’s growing unease. “You know they planned to kill you. Hvitserik wanted me gone. I promised to stay that way if they let you go.”

 

“What?” Alfred was suddenly sitting much closer, the sharp point to his voice startling them both. “You just gave up your father’s kingdom, your revenge, your brothers, for me? Why would you agree to that?”

 

“Because they were going to kill you, idiot.” Ivar sat up so that they almost knocked into each other, voice gravely and annoyed. “It’s not like I gave a fuck about them anyway. Like I said, I’m glad I left. Keeping you alive was just a bonus.”

 

“That’s so stupid.” Alfred couldn’t even imagine being put in a situation where he had to make a decision like that, he wasn’t sure what he would do if he was. If this were ten years ago during those last few days Alfred spent in the heathen camp, he never would have made that deal. All Alfred really remembered from those days was how angry he had been at Ivar.

 

“It kept you alive, didn’t it?” Ivar hedged defensively. “I’m starting to regret it now, if that helps.”

 

“It doesn’t.” Alfred told him, words punctuated by the steadily growing unease in Alfred’s stomach.

 

He turned his head and sat back on the bed, wishing he could be alone so that he could think about all of this without the distraction of Ivar watching him. Ivar, who had given up his home for Alfred. Ivar, who was meant to be the selfish one, the one who took everything away from Alfred. It shouldn’t have happened. Alfred should have been dead and Ivar should have been the king of Kattegat like he must have always dreamed. Instead, here they both were, undressed together in bed, skin bruised with lust and desire, and souls so close to shattering.

 

Ivar’s hand came over to lay on Alfred’s arm. The touch was gentle, apologetic even. It didn’t pull Alfred in, but rather held steady as Ivar came to sit closer to him. Alfred let out the breath he’d been holding in, all the exhaustion leaving his body as he let himself sink in Ivar’s side. Alfred was still angry, frustrated really, that Ivar would have given up the chance to reconcile with his family to keep an enemy alive. It was a fool’s move, a stupid strategic decision on so many levels. And Ivar was no fool and he was a brilliant strategist and he still had made the choice to trade his home for Alfred’s life.

 

Alfred didn’t know how to explain what that meant. He didn’t know how to reconcile that the man who had uprooted kingdoms and destroyed thousands of lives, had made the decision to save the life of the king he’d always promised to kill. It was nonsensical, a chaotic choice made by a chaotic man.

 

“I won’t thank you for it.” Alfred told him finally, just as he and Ivar had gotten used to the silence between them. “I’d never have asked for something like that. It was a stupid choice to spare the life of an enemy who certainly would have killed you if he’d been given the chance.”

 

Ivar had gone rigid before when Alfred began speaking, but slowly that drained out of him and he began to relax again. “I don’t want your gratitude.” He said the word like it was repulsive.

 

And that was also strange, because what then did Ivar want? Before, Ivar sparing Alfred’s life like that would certainly have been used as a bargaining chip, something to hold over his head and be used to manipulate Alfred into thinking he owed something to Ivar. Hadn’t that been the root of one of their arguments ten years ago? Ivar had been convinced that Alfred owed him his life—now that really was true and Ivar seemed repulsed by the idea that Alfred owed him anything for the decision he’d made.

 

“What do you want then?” Alfred asked, sitting forward and running a hand through his hair. “Really, Ivar, just tell me. Why did you come back to Wessex? I thought it was to fight alongside the Danes, but now you’ve crossed them. That couldn’t have been your plan all along. You told me when we met at that peace talk that you would try to kill me—”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“I know that you aren’t planning that anymore,” Alfred rolls his eyes, but his chest feels tight from how quickly Ivar had tried to dismiss that claim. He pushed past it. “But that was your intention, wasn’t it? That’s why you came back to Wessex, so what has changed? You’re siding with the Christians now against your own people? Helping us build a navy to defeat the Danes, training my soldiers for battle—All of your choices have no reason to them. I don’t understand it, Ivar. I trust you and I have no idea why and it drives me insane that I can’t justify myself, because I can’t justify why you would do any of this. I can’t justify why you would pick me over your own people.”

 

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Ivar turned his eyes away, face pulled in a defensive grimace. Alfred waited for him to expand on the point, staying quiet and staring at the side of his face, which was the only reason Ivar didn’t just conclude his defense there. Begrudgingly, Ivar continued, “I don’t know what the gods have planned for me anymore. I should have died in battle, but I never did…it doesn’t matter. Why do we need to justify it? You said you trust me, so trust me. You wanted this and now you have it, why do you have to keep asking questions and try to take it apart?”

 

 _I don’t know._ Alfred could have answered, but he held the words in his throat. Alfred had no idea why he was trying so hard to find the flaw in all of this. Why couldn’t he just let himself be happy, why couldn’t he be content with knowing that Ivar had chosen him and they could be happy even if it was only a temporary joy? But far back in Alfred’s mind, he could feel that something about it all was wrong. Dangerous. Eahlswith had said that she was not the sort of person who could be happy, and Alfred did not think he was the sort who could be either. Not like this. Something in Ivar’s story was wrong, something in their circumstances was wrong. It was like an apple that a worm had wedged itself inside of. It would rot from the inside out, slow at first, but without anyone ever noticing the corruption would spread until a single bite was poison.

 

 Ivar put his hand on Alfred’s face, nudging it towards his direction and then set a slow kiss on his lips, drawing it out like it was a thing to be cherished. Alfred didn’t resist—it wasn’t like their other kisses, with the bows of passion and lust seeping through. Alfred closed his eyes and savored it, wondering how many more of these moments he might get before the rot revealed itself and it all fell to pieces.

 

The kiss continued, drawing out and slowly gaining heat. There was an unspoken agreement between Ivar and Alfred that they ought to stop talking and take in the moment while they still could. The moment was ended when the door to the room opened with a bang and a voice shouted Ivar’s name.

 

Alfred swallowed a gasp as he pushed Ivar away and gripped the sheets of the bed tight around his waist. His eyes flew to the door across from him—how the fuck could a situation like this be explained? He felt panic clawing at his chest and wondered if it was better or worse that it was Ivar’s Northman, Alfhilda standing before them.

 

Ivar didn’t seem the least bit concerned from being caught, for whatever that counted for. His eyes narrowed and he fell back on the bed after Alfred had pushed him away. Ivar now pushing himself up on his elbows to look at her. It was all done rather lazily, uncaring of the red stain of kissed lips, or the compromised situation they found themselves in.

 

Ivar’s lips curled as he ordered Alfhilda in Norse to tell him what she was doing in here.

 

Alfhilda’s eyes had found Alfred moments after she had entered the room and her face had broken out in a gleeful, if not disconcertingly impish, leer. Her eyes danced between Ivar and him and she answered Ivar in Norse, copying his tone, asking him what he was doing with the king.

 

Alfred’s face as red. Clearly, Alfhilda wasn’t horrified at seeing her own leader in bed with another man, but her reaction was only minimally better than if she had been. With both Northmen speaking Norse, Alfred was starting to feel rather like he ought to leave the room before they said something that would truly break his dignity in half. He reached a hand outward, looking for some clothes that were scattered near the end of the bed. His hand latched on a pair of trousers that might have been his and he hurriedly tried to pull them on while staying under the sheet.

 

Ivar and Alfhilda had been batting hissing remarks to one another in the time it took for Alfred to lace the top of the trousers and get them on. When he started to pull away from the bed, Ivar grabbed him.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Alfred blinked. He felt like the answer was impossibly obvious. Ivar’s tone had been laced with the waited fear that their night was over and it might not ever be repeated again. It made Alfred wish he could answer without their current audience so that he might say something reassuring or hopeful, but instead Alfred could not keep from darting his eyes towards Alfhilda who was watching with amusement that set Alfred on edge.

 

“Elsewhere.” Alfred tore his eyes from Alfhilda, ducking his head. “Clearly. It seems you have business to attend to, and I don’t believe I should be here for it.”

 

Alfred also wondered if he should tell Ivar to make Alfhilda swear not to tell anyone about having seen them in bed together. Ivar should already have known that he ought to do that, but Alfred was paranoid and anxious and he needed to confirm that last night wasn’t going to create even more problems for him than those he was already expecting.

 

“You don’t need to leave.” Ivar urged him firmly, still not letting go of Alfred’s hand.

 

“I think that I do.” Alfred spoke lowly, wondering how much of this conversation Alfhilda was understanding, because even though Ivar was comfortable pretending that she was still not watching, Alfred wasn’t.

 

Alfred pulled his hand away and set his feet on the cold stone floor of the room. He tried to ignore the hurt expression on Ivar’s face as he quickly turned his attentions towards finding a shirt.

 

Alfhilda began speaking again as Alfred did this, but this time Alfred purposefully tried not to follow the conversation. He should have left the bed hours ago, Alfred had things to do, kingly things, and he was lucky that it had been Alfhilda who found him in Ivar’s bed and not one of the guards or Ivar’s shadow who would have caused several hundred problems if they found Alfred there.

 

Alfred had pulled a shirt over his head and as for the rest of his clothes, he was content abandoning them if it meant he could leave the room faster. He’d take one of the servant passages so that he wouldn’t be seen disheveled, without his jacket or shoes, and sneak into his own room where he could try and recover from last night and come up with an excuse to explain his absence that morning. This felt like a fairly competent plan, but as Alfred tried to move towards the door, Alfhilda stopped him.

 

“No.” she said in heavily accented English.

 

Alfred’s brow knitted together and he glanced at Ivar, who seemed no less confused, but loads more irritated.

 

“Excuse me…” Alfred tried again to duck around her, but Alfhilda set her hand on his chest and shook her head and repeated again, _no._

 

Where her expression had been delighted and impish before, it was serious now. It had been that way before, when she first entered the room and hadn’t realized it was Alfred in Ivar’s bed yet. While she and Ivar had been bickering, Alfred had forgotten that she must have had a purpose for coming into the bedroom unannounced.

 

Alfred did not try to walk past her again. Instead, he took a step back and stood up straight. There was a weighted gravity in her tone, a somber expression on her face.

 

“What is it?” Ivar asked her in English this time.

 

The corners of Alfhilda’s mouth pinched as she glanced at Alfred, looking almost sympathetically, before turning back to address Ivar. She spoke in Norse, tone clipped and final, body bracing like she expected resistance.

 

Ivar sat still on the bed. He blinked once, jaw clenching and blue eyes flashing with anger. He let out a deep breath, trying to release some of that wrath flowing through his blood before he looked towards Alfred to explain the message.

 

Alfred needed no translator though. His body had gone cold, heart stopping in his chest when she spoke. Alfred had understood her perfectly.

 

_The Danes have returned._

 

“She said—”

 

“I know what she said.” Alfred shook his head, trying to swallow back the quiver in his words. He was not afraid, that shouldn’t be mistaken. What Alfred was, was angry. He looked up at Ivar, the gentleness, the hope, the affection between them gone. They both understood what this meant.

 

It meant war.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing sex! instead we get vague allusions and metaphoric nonsense and gratuitous morning afters.
> 
> Plan is 2 more chapters and an epilogue, hopefully finished by the end of next week


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

Alfred was staring at the rain.

 

It had started out as a mist over the rolling green marshes, but steadily the drops had grown heavier until the hit the earth with a consistent _thud_ masking the ruckus of the war camp behind him.

 

Alfred sat at the edge of one of the tents watching the rain, watching the horizon where the marshes met the grey sky and the earth seemed to end.

 

It had been raining the day his brother died in battle. Alfred remembered it well. He’d not been in the fight, instead staying some ways off it in a camp much like this one, helping plan for the next strategic win, his mother by his side. Alfred hadn’t been a king then, he couldn’t have imagined that he’d ever be one. Aethelred was meant to live, he was meant to ride back and break through the horizon and come through the rain back to their camp and be Wessex’s king.

 

The rain hadn’t stopped, and Aethelred never came back.

 

“The ships have been positioned down the river,” a general came up to Alfred’s side, “They should intercept the Danes. Where should we position the remainder of the men?”

 

It had been three days since the news of Danish ships spotted along the coast arrived at Wessex. The Danes had returned from Jutland a little less than a month earlier than predicted, leaving Alfred and his army scattering to meet them before they hit land and could get the upper hand.

 

For the last three days Alfred hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep, too busy preparing to fight an enemy he’d nearly forgotten about.

 

The rain kept falling and Alfred bitterly reminded himself that if he hadn’t been so distracted he could have been preparing for this. There were fourteen ships to his navy, not even half of what he wanted. The soldiers were trained and seasoned for battle, but strategies still weren’t finished and the stocks of food and supplies for a military expedition were hardly fully prepared for a war.

 

“Position them along the coast, but keep them to the trees. We don’t need the Danes expecting us. Line the archers first—don’t send any foot soldier out until the Danes are well onto the beach. I’m not wasting any resources on an initial battle.”

 

The general nodded, but held his place. Alfred tore eyes away from the rain to look at him, lifting an eyebrow as if to inquire why he was not leaving to distribute the order. The general scowled, “I and the other commanders want final confirmation on whether or not the Northmen from Dublin will be fighting with us.”

 

Alfred’s jaw ticked as he turned back to the rain. It had started to pour harder now, making the horizon nearly indistinguishable. It was not ideal conditions for battle.

 

Alfred had told Aethelred that before he left to fight the great heathen army. The rain had been just like it was now, coming down too hard, making everything harder to see and the ground slick with mud. Alfred warned Aethelred that no battle should be fought in such wrought conditions, but much like the one now, the battle back then couldn’t be avoided.

 

It had been raining like this when Ivar told Alfred that he would fight for him against the Danes. Two days ago, when Alfred first made the order to ride towards the rivers and coast and prepare for attack, Ivar had come up to Alfred’s side as he oversaw the organization of troops and told him that he wouldn’t be leaving to Dublin like he promised.

 

The argument was that the Northmen from Dublin would fight for Alfred’s cause with the condition that land would be granted to them when the fighting was done. A colony of Northmen along the coast closest to the Irish isles. A trading partner with the Saxons, an allegiance between two kings.

 

It was a good dream. Alfred had said no.

 

“As I said before, the Northmen will not be aiding us in the fight.” Alfred told the general, bitter spit sticking to his tongue. He glared at the rain.

 

“They have not returned to their boats to go across the channel. If they aren’t joining us, the soldiers are worried that they will be joining the Danes. The keep asking why the Northmen are still in the camp if they won’t be fighting with us.”

 

Alfred had been very much aware of the Northmen’s continued presence in the camp. Maybe he hadn’t expected Ivar to listen to him, but Alfred had hoped. Hope turned to bitter ashes in the mouth—wasn’t that a lesson his grandfather had wanted him to learn? Hoping rarely brought results.

 

“Perhaps you and the other generals should spend less time gossiping and more time preparing for the current invasion.” Alfred looked over his shoulder and glowered. “I will handle the Northmen. Tell the others my orders, we’ve not the time to discuss this any further.”

 

The general left looking discontent and frustrated, but he left all the same. Alfred felt his shoulders dip when he was finally alone. He took in a deep breath, feeling the heavy air of rainfall enter his lungs, shuttering as he breathed out. He shut his eyes and dipped his head and listened to the storm.

 

 

He found Ivar in the Northmen encampment, positioned right next to the Saxon’s. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began, except for that the inhabitants of the Northmen’s weren’t moving around in the organized chaos like Alfred’s, but sitting still, gathered in groups, speaking lowly, and glaring at Alfred as he walked through towards Ivar’s tent.

 

The all looked half prepared for battle; weapons near hand, dressed for war, but sitting, half relaxed and discontent with the idea of getting up for a cause against their Danish brethren. The tension of the camp read the same. They should have been either joining the Danes or sailing back to Dublin, not sitting here next to the Saxon camp.

 

All of it felt eerily familiar to Alfred. Once again, he was an unwanted entity in a Viking camp, the tensions of battle thick in the air, rain making bloody ground slick, walking towards the tent of a king, with enemies praying for his throat to be slit. Alfred avoided their eyes as walked, ducking to enter Ivar’s tent without a word.

 

Alfhilda and Knute were gathered around a table with Ivar. Strangle, Olaf was absent, despite having been a constant figure at Ivar’s side for the last three days. His absence was not only noted by Alfred, but by the others as well, and there seemed to be an empty space at the table where Olaf should have been standing. They’d been speaking in low voices, barely heard over the beating of the rain against the stretched tent top. They looked up when Alfred entered, none looked happy about his presence.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Ivar’s grimace turned into a scowl. He said something to dismiss Knute and Alfhilda who looked none the happier to be leaving. Knute went first, digging a glare into the side of Alfred’s head as he went. Alfhilda stayed behind a second longer.

 

She hit her palm against the table and spoke to Ivar. _You’re a cripple, not blind_.

 

Ivar sneered; _watch yourself._ He told her, _don’t forget your place here._

 

Alfhilda gave him a hateful glare, but nodded. She stepped back from the table, slowing as she passed beside Alfred. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. She looked troubled.

 

“What is it you want?” Ivar said when they were alone. He sat down on a chair beside the table, tension falling from his body like he couldn’t have taken carrying the weight of it for a second longer.

 

Alfred grabbed another chair from against the wall and dragged it over to the table to sit across from Ivar. They hadn’t gotten substantial time to speak together since Alfred had told Ivar that Ivar wouldn’t be joining the war.

 

“Why aren’t you sailing back to Dublin?”

 

Ivar scoffed, “I don’t take orders from you. I told you I wasn’t going to go back there. Don’t pretend you don’t need my help fighting the Danes, its fucking obvious that you do.”

 

“Ivar,” Alfred breathed deeply, trying to control his flaring temper. He didn’t have the patience for this right now, neither did he have the time for a drawn-out argument. Ivar seemed on intent on making things difficult though, and Alfred was going to have to deal with that. “You’re not fighting in this war—it isn’t your war to even fight in, and what’s _fucking obvious_ is that your Northmen don’t want to fight against the Danes.”

 

“They’re pissed we’re not returning home. They’re pissed that I haven’t sent them out to battle yet. They’ll fight against the Danes if it means gaining land here. We’ve fought alongside the Christians before. My father fought for Wessex against the Mercians years ago, in exchange for the same deal.”

 

“Things are different now.” Alfred argued. The Northmen now blamed Wessex for the death of Ragnar Lothbrok, they’d fought a war against the Saxons, they’d been deceived in similar deals by them in the past. Ivar was going to ignore this though, because he was being fucking stubborn.

 

“Don’t tell me how to command my army.” Ivar growled, leaning forward, “I’ve been fighting in fucking wars longer than you have, Little King.”

 

Alfred glared at him, enunciating slowly, “This isn’t your war to fight.”

 

“Yeah, well I’m not going to just leave you here to fight it on your own.”

 

“Well, I’m not going to let you die for me.” Alfred’s voice pitched. He pressed his lips together and listened to the rain hitting the tent, “This isn’t your war, Ivar. Go home.”

 

“I’m not leaving.” Ivar said the words dismissively before leaning back in his chair. It was final, definite. The rain kept falling.

 

Alfred stood up from his chair and began to pace. There was too much to think about, too many scenarios to consider. Why didn’t Ivar just understand? Alfred had lost too many people to war, he wasn’t going to let Ivar be the next fatality.

 

“You promised me that you were going to go home after the ships were built.” Alfred threw out helplessly, trying to think of a more substantial argument.

 

“I didn’t promise shit.” Ivar glared at him, tracking Alfred as he paced back and forth along the tent, “And the ships aren’t even fucking done yet anyway. I’m staying.”

 

“I don’t want your help.” Alfred argued.

 

Ivar rolled his eyes like this had become a little too tedious for him. “When I agreed to make the navy, you promised that I could make one condition out of the deal. This is my condition: I’m fighting in this war.”

 

“Christ, Ivar,” Alfred hissed, sinking back down on his chair, “Stop being so flippant about this. You aren’t even listening to me—go back home.”

 

“There isn’t anything for me back in Dublin.” Ivar was fervent in repeating this, he’d said the same thing the first time Alfred had told him to leave. “This is where my fate leads—this war, I’m supposed to fight in it. I’m not supposed to go back.”

 

Alfred stilled. He repeated Ivar’s words in his head so that he really understood what we being said. Alfred knew that Ivar thought that his gods wanted him to go to Wessex, but the last part of his statement was all new information.

 

“What do you mean you aren’t supposed to go back? Go back to Dublin, you mean? What are you talking about?”

 

Ivar had started to tense again, he was still leaning back in his seat, but his shoulders were held too rigid and his eyes wouldn’t meet Alfred’s. This clearly had been a slip of the tongue.

 

Alfred didn’t understand the Northmen’s culture all that much. It was never something he and Ivar discussed before, and so Alfred only had a very basic understanding of it. He’d heard the word fate used before though, and he understood that they fought so fiercely in battle because they did not fear death during it. Most Northmen wanted to die in battle because they would be rewarded in their afterlife. They all seemed to believe in a life that lacked freewill, at least in the sense that their fate meant that the times of their deaths were predetermined.

 

“I—”

 

Alfred stood up again and shook his head, “You are not fighting in this war.”

 

Ivar’s eyes narrowed, “You think you can just tell me what to do? I’m not one of your fucking soldiers you get to order around. I’m not looking for your fucking permission to fight in this war.”

 

“I’m not letting you fight in it, if you think that you’re going to die.” Alfred tried to hold back his panic at the thought. The rain grew heavier. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? You plan on dying in this war—I’m not going to let you. This is madness, Ivar, do you honestly think that—”

 

“Will you shut up.” Ivar growled, standing up from his chair and banging his hand on the table. Alfred went quiet, not feeling like he said nearly enough yet. Ivar’s look silenced him though, at least long enough to let Ivar continue, “I’m not planning on fucking dying, Alfred. I’m not going to be killed by some fucking Danes.”

 

“You just said that it was your fate—”

 

“To not go back to Dublin.” Ivar glared at him for the interruption. “I knew that this is the land where I was going to die when I first set foot on it. It has nothing to do with you—it’s the will of the gods. That doesn’t mean I’m going to die fighting the Danes.”

 

Alfred wanted to argue that none of that was true, at least the parts about Ivar’s gods and his fate. It wouldn’t have been any use. Ivar had made up his mind, and there would be no changing it.

 

Alfred would still try.

 

He gripped the back of his chair, holding it rigidly as he stood at the table. “I don’t like this, Ivar. I don’t like the idea of you fighting with an army of Northmen who aren’t as bound to the cause as you are. I saw them out there, they don’t want to be here. I know you think that you won’t die if you fight, but I can’t risk that.”

 

Ivar scoffed, setting Alfred with a challenging look, “Because you care about me so fucking much?”

 

Alfred looked up at him and scowled, “Yeah, I do. Don’t pretend like you don’t already know that.”

 

“Maybe I just like to hear you say it aloud.” Ivar walked along the desk until Alfred was close enough to grab by the waist and pull in.

 

Alfred pushed back against his chest and stepped away, “I’m being serious.”

 

“So am I.” Ivar tried to reach for him again, but Alfred took a further step back and Ivar sighed loudly, tilting his head up. “You’re being fucking difficult right now.”

 

Alfred ignored that. Since their night together, they hadn’t shared more than a few stray touches or lips brushed against another in stolen moments. Things were too tense as they were, and after Alfred denied Ivar’s help there just hadn’t been any time to even consider repeating anything close to their shared night.

 

“ _You’re_ being difficult.” Alfred told him, crossing his arms, “Too many people I’ve cared about have died, because of wars.”

 

Ivar sat against the edge of the table and hedged his shoulders, “You don’t think I already know that.”

 

The bitter guilt in the tone echoed in the room and was strong enough to be heard over the rain. Alfred hadn’t even meant it like that, but now it felt obvious that Ivar would have seen the comment to be directed at him. It was Ivar, after all, who killed Alfred’s father and brother in the last war they fought.

 

“That’s not what I meant.” Alfred said quietly, stepping closer to Ivar again so that they nearly touched.

 

Alfred felt weary and tired and wished for nothing more than to set his head on Ivar’s shoulder and rest. Ivar would have let him, even if he didn’t believe Alfred. His arm already was going to set on Alfred’s waist, to pull him closer in some sort of comforting gesture. Alfred leaned into it, letting himself be shepherded towards the other man.

 

“I can’t fix that,” Ivar said, voice careful as his words were weighted with the deaths of Alfred’s family. “but I can try to make up for it. Let me protect the family you have left.”

 

Alfred shook his head, letting it rest against Ivar’s for a moment before he began to pull away again. Leaving Ivar’s comfort was hard, but Alfred needed to think clearly to make his point known.

 

“A few winters ago, the Danes laid siege on Mercia, where Eahlswith and the children had been sent to stay out of the way during the war. I rode out to help them, and my mother wished to go with me, but I told her to remain in Wessex. I thought she would be safe there. I thought I was protecting her. In my absence, a plague struck the city and my mother fell victim to it and died not long after.” Alfred thought hollowly of the painful memory. His focus fell to the rain, the cold sweeping up the air. “You can’t protect people in this war, Ivar. It won’t let you. Death touches everyone, and I can’t have yours on my conscious too. Please, just go back to Dublin.”

 

His head was tipped down and when Ivar moved forward to draw him in again Alfred tensed. He ought to push away again, but Alfred was too exhausted at this point and just fell into it. Alfred wouldn’t say that the way Ivar put his arms around him was comforting, but it had the intentions of being comforting like Ivar had never been held when upset and was trying to recreate the action of it now by assumption and hope. There was something about that, which made Alfred even more grateful for the attempt.

 

Alfred lay his head down on Ivar’s shoulder, hiding his face in the other man’s neck. He was so tired.

 

“I know that this means no.” Alfred said into Ivar’s neck. He tried to keep his bitterness out of the words, but if Ivar had any intention of listening to Alfred and going back to Dublin he would have said so already.

 

Ivar nodded. He was still holding himself rigid, arms draped around Alfred’s back like he wasn’t quite sure where to place them. “I’m not leaving.”

 

Alfred sighed, his nose digging into one of the bones in Ivar’s shoulder. “At least let those who don’t want to fight go back to Dublin. I’ll grant farming land to your soldiers who stand with us, but I won’t have Northmen fighting for Wessex when they’d rather be fighting against us.”

 

Ivar snorted, arms relaxing a little more, “I know how to lead my own army.”

 

Ivar couldn’t see, but Alfred rolled his eyes, and listlessly raised a palm to hit the side of Ivar’s arm. Ivar laughed again, quiet and soft, and almost fond. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, wondering how much easier his life would be if Ivar had hated him.

 

 

It was still raining when Alfred left the tent, feeling no more content than when he came in. He and Ivar had come up with a rough plan of action. It was not one Alfred was comfortable with. The Northmen wouldn’t be fighting alongside the Saxon army, rather they would go into Danes’ camp and attack from the inside.

 

Ivar was of the persuasion that the Danes still did not know that Ivar had crossed them, and therefore he would be welcomed into their camp when they returned. From there, Ivar would learn their plan of attack and send a rider out to Alfred who would try to intercept this new attack before it could happen, overwhelming the Danes before they got the chance to collect themselves.

 

It felt overtly risky, but Alfred couldn’t deny that if it worked it would give Wessex an overwhelming advantage.

 

Half of the Northmen army would go with Ivar to the Danes, the other half would stay and fight with the Saxons after the received word of the Danes’ plans. If everything worked correctly, Ivar would return to the Saxon camp and retake control of his army and they would finish the remainder of the war as a partnership.

 

This plan would take action in the next few days, and Ivar would stay out of the initial conflict with the Danes in order to keep his cover. Alfred would lead his army against the Danes at the river alone, and the Northmen would shift camp so that they would not be seen by any Danes that might make it to land and try to spy on the camps.

 

Alfred walked out of the camp considering this, looking at the Northmen and wondering if he could trust them to betray their former allies so blatantly. As he did, he caught sight of Ivar’s former shadow, Olaf, who was sitting under a raised tarp with several other men surrounding him. Their eyes met, and Olaf’s narrowed, following Alfred as he walked past them.

 

There was a look of pure malice on Olaf’s face. Alfred did not think he could trust him at all, and Ivar wondered if Ivar realized this too. Was that why Olaf wasn’t in the tent with the others earlier? Had Ivar already decided that Olaf wouldn’t fight for the Saxons who he so clearly hated. Perhaps it had been Olaf’s own decision.

 

Glancing away, Alfred saw Alfhilda standing near by the gathered men, an uneasy expression on her face again. Her eyes held Alfred’s and followed him until he was at the gates of the camp. There was something sad and somber in them, like she was watching a funeral. Alfred walked through the gates. It was still raining.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Three battles had taken place with the result of victory.

 

Alfred stood outside the gates of the camp watching as the returning soldiers marched up the hill towards him. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. He could not be certain until there was a final camp, but it looked to be less men arriving than those who left.

 

The war could have lasted centuries, but Alfred didn’t have the supplies or men for such a battle. The allied Northmen didn’t have it either, and after every battle the promise of land must have sound less and less convincing as a reason to fight. He and Ivar hadn’t spoken about this—they’d spoken very little with all the fighting going on—but they both must have known it was true.

 

Because of this, when Alfred returned from a strategy meeting with his generals and cousin Leofric, who was fighting the campaign with them, and was told that the Northern woman who served alongside Ivar, was waiting at his tent, Alfred tried to not let his surprise betray him.

 

The Northmen hadn’t come to the Saxon camp since the early days of fighting, tension between the two uneasy allies had grown more strained. Alfred didn’t know what to think as he waked towards his tent, trying to come up with a reasonable guess of what reason one of Ivar’s generals would have to visit him. He tried not to assume the worst.

 

Alfhilda was waiting in his tent like the soldier had told Alfred.

 

He walked in cautiously, wondering why she, of all the Northmen, would have crossed the river to come speak to him. She was standing near his desk, hand tracing over the bent parchment of a folded letter, which was sitting there. She heard Alfred enter and looked up, turning her head to watch him draw near.

 

“Has Ivar sent you?” Alfred asked, voice taking a careful edge as he made his way around the desk to stand near her.

 

She was still dressed for combat, save for the ax that she would have worn at her belt, which was left at the mouth of the tent, per the guard’s orders. They had told Alfred that she came alone, but that was all the information they had for her unexpected arrival. Ivar might have sent her, Alfred knew that the two of them trusted each other, but Alfhilda did not speak Alfred’s language, and couldn’t have been Ivar’s first choice as messenger.

 

Alfhilda’s lips twisted contemplatively, giving away no answer. She tilted her head towards the flap of the tent, as if inquiring if anyone was standing outside it.

 

“My guard,” Alfred told her, hoping that answered the unspoken question. “He will only come in if I call. Do you have a message to deliver?” Alfred looked down at her empty hands, and it appeared she brought no letter either.

 

Alfhilda grimaced. There was mud and blood flecking her skin, though the Northmen at Ivar’s camp hadn’t fought a battle since the day before. Perhaps there had been an unexpected attack at Ivar’s camp and she had come here to find reinforcements to drive away the Danes. If that was so, though, Alfhilda was in no rush to tell Alfred.

 

“Can you—”

 

“ _You understand me?”_ She spoke in her clipped Norse language. It wasn’t really a question, more like Alfhilda already knew the answer and just wanted a confirmation so that she could continue speaking. Alfred, who had no reason to further hide his understanding of her language, nodded.

 

“ _I do_.” He answered in Norse.

 

Alfhilda nodded, and gave one last cagey glance towards the front of the tent. “ _Ivar is in danger.”_

 

 

Alfhilda and Alfred stood in the far corner of his tent. Alfred stood very still, listening as Alfhilda explained the situation. After siding with the Saxons for the last three offensive battles, the Northmen were growing restless. Half the army was still loyal to Ivar, but the other half had grown discontent, and the discontent was led by Olaf.

 

It shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was—Alfred had predicted that something like this might happen, but after the Northmen fighting with them in the last battles, Alfred had gotten lax in his concern. According to Alfhilda, Olaf was angry that Ivar had chosen the interests of the Christians over his own people and was secretly campaigning to overthrow Ivar and assume control of the Northmen and turn against the Saxons in the next battle.

 

“He wants to kill Ivar?” Alfred felt lightheaded and leaned against his desk to keep steady. Alfhilda nodded gravely. “Does Ivar know yet?”

 

He did, Alfhilda told Alfred, but Ivar didn’t seem like he had any intentions to stop the rebellion. Ivar believed that if Olaf challenged him for supremacy of the army, Ivar would win. Alfhilda explained that this was how these matters were usually settled, through a duel between the two opposing parties, where the winner claimed all victories.

 

Alfhilda though, seemed convinced that Olaf had no intentions in challenging Ivar to a duel, rather he planned to take Ivar out through an assassination. It did not take Alfred long to believe the same.

 

It was not unexpected that Ivar was indifferent to this news when Alfhilda told him about it. Alfred was irrationally angry that Alfhilda hadn’t gone to him first to tell him of Olaf’s betrayal, and that she had waited so long to do so.

 

When her news was delivered Alfred told Alfhilda to take him to Ivar—he became very rationally angry when she refused.

 

Wait until night, she said. With tensions so high in the Northmen camp, as Olaf was already gathering forces to betray Ivar and the Saxons, it was better for Alfred to wait until nightfall before he went to try and talk to Ivar. There was logic in Alfhilda’s request, and so Alfred bitterly complied. They agreed to meet at the tree line at sunset, and from there Alfhilda would sneak Alfred into the camp.

 

The path she took him through was treacherous. At night it was difficult to see, and the Northmen had made their camp in an area of the country, which was difficult to get to on foot. It would have been easier to take a small boat and get to the camp by river, but Alfhilda said that they would be spotted if they did that, and Alfred’s presence in the camp would have only escalated tensions.

 

Even after the trek in the woods, Alfred still ended up at the river. Ivar hadn’t been in his tent, and after some anxious searching, Alfred found Ivar sitting with his back against a tree, looking out over the calm water of the river.

 

He was alone, the area fairly isolated. Alfred thanked Alfhilda who dismissed herself, though Alfred was certain that even after she disappeared from sight, she wasn’t far away. Alfred walked towards Ivar.

 

The moon was full, and grey clouds were starting to spread across the moonlit sky and darken the night. They hid the stars, giving off a foreboding sense of gloom. The only sound was the babbling of the river and then the earth under Alfred’s boots as he went to sit beside Ivar.

 

Ivar glanced over, unsurprised. Ivar must have known that Alfhilda was going to go to Alfred with the news of Olaf’s betrayal. He gave a heavy sigh, “You should have stayed away. It’s not safe for you here.”

 

Alfred turned on him—the peace of night broken. “You’re worried about me? Your people want you dead.”

 

Ivar’s wrinkled his nose, a crease forming between his eyes as he turned, “Many people want me dead. Just because you now know the name of one of them, doesn’t mean that I’m in any more danger than I have been before. People have always wanted me dead, none have succeeded.”

 

“So that’s it then? You aren’t going to do anything?” Alfred scoffed, “Don’t you care at all what your death would do to me, Ivar?”

 

The tension in Ivar’s shoulders seeped away, his lips bent in a quiet smile in the moonlight. “I love when you say my name. Its only ever when you are angry at me though. Even when we fucked you didn’t say it.”

 

Alfred recoiled and scowled. There was a flush rising to his skin at the mention of their night together, but Alfred’s anger was strong enough to combat any timidity he could feel. “I’m fairly convinced that you stop listening to me the moment I say something you don’t like. I’m not fond of that trait, just so you know—I rather like when people listen to me when I’m saying something important.”

 

Ivar rolled his eyes and fell back on the grass. He put one arm behind his head, the muscle flexing impressively there, as the other reached out to pull a handful of grass from the ground beneath him. The grass was tossed vaguely in Alfred’s direction. “You still think too much.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Alfred bristled, brushing away some of the grass that had fallen on his knees. He grimaced down at the pieces that were still caught. He focused on that.

 

Ivar’s hand reached out and grabbed onto Alfred’s. The touch still made Alfred’s breath leave his throat. It always did at first. It was still so unfamiliar and new. These casual, delicate touches were so foreign to Alfred, and Ivar always gave them away with such careless abandon. This time though, Ivar did not link their hands together. Rather, Ivar used his hand to blindly trace the lines in Alfred’s. His fingers brushed over the creases in the palm, over the bones in his wrist, and the veins that stood blue against pale skin there. Eventually the touch fell away and Alfred could breathe no better with it gone.

 

“I like when you think.” Ivar told him, bringing his hand back to join the other behind his head, resting against them as he looked up at the canopy of tree branches overhead. “I means that you are not stupid. What bothers me is when your thinking gets in my way.”

 

Alfred glared at Ivar, who was still relaxing so easily. His hand still burned bright from the touches, though they always left Ivar unaffected. Ivar always seemed rather unaffected and it made it impossible for Alfred to tell what he was thinking.

 

“You can’t always get your way, especially when you are wrong.” Alfred tried to get them back on track—they needed to talk about what they were going to do about Olaf, and Alfred couldn’t let Ivar distract him from that. “And you’re wrong this time. We can’t just wait for Olaf to attack first. You know that he is going to betray you, we need to do something before he gets the chance to act.”

 

“We?” Ivar tilted his head to watch Alfred’s reactions. “This does not have to involve you, Alfred. What good is all your thinking if it never keeps you safe? This isn’t a matter that I need your help with.”

 

“Clearly it is.” Alfred growled when Ivar turned his head away again, and so Alfred got up and moved closer—close enough that Ivar couldn’t keep ignoring him. He sat with his knees pressed against Ivar’s side, hand pressed against Ivar’s shoulder to force his attention. “Stop doing that—Just look at me, Ivar. I can help you, if you just let me.”

 

Ivar did look at Alfred. He moved his hand from behind his head, over to Alfred’s hip where it then rested there. His lip quirked up fondly.

 

“Have you—have you been drinking?” Alfred asked after a moment passed.

 

Ivar rolled his eyes again and turned to look back up at the trees, “Relax, Little King. I’m not drunk—unlike others, it takes more than a few sips of ale to get me tanked.”

 

Alfred glared, “We’re at war. You have traitors in your camp. This isn’t the time for even a few sips of ale.”

 

“Let’s disagree.” Ivar said, and then he went quiet for a long while, where only the sound of the river masked their breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of thunder could be heard. “Olaf has fought at my side since I first conquered Dublin. His betrayal does not shock me, I just did not think it would come so soon.”

 

Alfred’s sympathies rose. He never cared for Olaf, but he knew that Ivar at least saw the other Northman like a brother—the only brother he had since he had traded his other brothers for Alfred’s life. Being alone in this world without someone to call family was a dark fate, to know that you were alone was as painful as any wound gained in battle.

 

“I’m sorry,” Alfred spoke gently, placing his hand over the one Ivar still held at Alfred’s side and entwining their fingers. Ivar’s calloused hand clutched his tightly as he exhaled another breathe. Alfred continued, “This is difficult to come to terms with, I understand that, but this is the time to act. We need a plan.”

 

Ivar moved his hand from Alfred’s, and snorted. “You don’t think I already have a plan? I have a plan.”

 

The absence of Ivar’s touch left Alfred cold, but he ignored it. “Alfhilda told me your plan—"

“Alfhilda doesn’t know my plan.” Ivar shook his head, glaring up at the trees, “No one does.”

 

“Well, then tell it to me so that I can help.”

 

Ivar sat up, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking over to Alfred, “I don’t want your help.”

 

It was frustrating having to deal with someone like Ivar who was convinced that they were better off handling things alone. Alfred had dealt with people like that when he first became king—people who thought they knew how to rule Wessex better than Alfred—Alfred had learned to not let people like that win.

 

“I don’t care what you want,” Alfred hissed, “I care that you live. Don’t be an idiot, Ivar, just let me help you—”

 

Ivar grabbed the back of Alfred’s neck and pulled him into a deep, open mouth kiss. Alfred’s gasp was swallowed up along with any words he might have said. By the time Ivar let up enough that Alfred could move away, they were both out of breath, skin flushed and bodies begging for more.

 

“Why did you—” Alfred took in another deep breath, trying to catch up with his beating heart, “Why did you do that?”

Ivar pulled away, going back to relax on the grass, “You said my name.” He answered indifferently. It all gave the appearance that the kiss was entirely meaningless, but Ivar’s chest was still rising and falling too fast for normal, and high up on his cheeks was red. He too was affected by it all.

 

“That’s not a reason,” Alfred wiped some spit that still stuck to his lips with the back of his arm. If he sounded annoyed that was because he was. Ivar couldn’t keep touching him like that and just pretending it didn’t matter.

 

“I told you I liked it when you said my name.” Ivar explained unconcerned. “Maybe if you don’t want to be kissed you should avoid it better. I’d recommend getting less pissed. You call me by my name less when you’re busy pitying me.”

 

Alfred narrowed his eyes, “I don’t pity you. Not everyone who cares, pities you. I actually think most of this is your own fault. I told you that the Northmen would rise against you if you joined this war, and you ignored me. This is your fault, Ivar, so stop—”

 

The next kiss shouldn’t have been surprising as it was. Alfred had been leaning forward, balancing most of his weight on the hand he had pressed against the ground, and when Ivar latched onto it and yanked Alfred forward, Alfred fell onto Ivar with a thud. Theirs heads bumped against each other, but that dull pain was replaced with the heavy heat of a kiss. This time Alfred chased it, moving so that one of his knees was on the dirt between Ivar’s legs and he could move against Ivar at a better angle. Ivar’s hand wound in Alfred’s hair, bringing their mouths together forcefully, pulling at it until he heard Alfred’s moan. Then the touch was gone and Alfred was pushed away, falling back into the grass.

 

“I warned you this time.”

 

“You are such an arse.” Alfred wiped his mouth again and pushed himself up from the grass. “I’m trying to help you and you keep trying to push me away. If you have a plan, at least tell it to me so that I can stop worrying about you and actually focus on winning this war.”

“If you don’t want me to push you away then maybe you could moan _my_ name instead of all your nothings.”

 

Alfred curled his lips, “That’s not what we’re talking about, right now.”

 

“It could be,” Ivar tempted, sitting up. Between his legs he was already hard, much like Alfred was starting to become after that last kiss, though Ivar was seemingly unconcerned about it all as he watched for Alfred’s response.

 

“No. Not until you tell me your plan.” Alfred didn’t let his eyes stray from Ivar’s. Ivar was stubborn, but no more so than Alfred.

 

Ivar looked like he wanted to try and call Alfred’s bluff, studying Alfred like he was trying to find the chinks in his resolve. When he couldn’t he gave a half growl of defeat. “You aren’t going to like it.”

 

“I never like your plans,” Which wasn’t strictly true, but true enough that Alfred didn’t feel like he was lying when he said it. “Tell me what it is.”

 

And Ivar did and Alfred listened, feeling any adrenaline and excitement from their kiss die as he did. Ivar had been right, Alfred did not like the plan. He did not like the plan at all, and as he listened to it he felt a sickening feeling in his stomach that he knew as dread. Above them thunder rolled.

 

“And this will all take place two days from now, when you take your boats up the river to attack the Danes?” Alfred confirmed, uneasily. He was imagining every way Ivar’s plan could go wrong, and there were many different ways. “What if Olaf attacks you before then? Or what if someone sees you after and knows that it was all a lie—”

This time the kiss that interrupted him was gentle, soft and lingering and then over. Ivar’s head was still bent against Alfred’s as they breathed.

 

“Stop thinking.” Ivar told him, “I’ve been in more wars than you, I know how to win them.”

 

“This isn’t going to win the war.” Alfred insisted because Ivar was already so certain that it was.

 

Ivar’s plan hinged on the fact that it would take out Olaf and the Northmen who the Danes were currently hinging their victory on. Apparently, Ivar had known of Olaf’s betrayal for a lot longer than Alfred had thought. Ivar had been planning his strategy for the last fortnight. The Danes were weakened, and they had reached out to Olaf, promising him Dublin if he betrayed Ivar and the Saxons and attacked their camp, taking out the majority of Alfred’s soldiers in the dead of night. The Danes were already weakened, and once Ivar had taken out their last hope for victory, the war was all but won.

 

“Stop questioning me.” Ivar spoke fiercely into Alfred’s good ear, holding the back of his head in his palm. “I know what I’m doing.”

 

“There are other ways to win a war,” Alfred told him, “Ways that don’t have to take so much away. Do you realize what you’re giving up? This is more than just taking out an enemy. You would be leaving all the Northmen still loyal to you defenseless.”

 

“I have plans in place for that,” Ivar said, and of course he did. Alfred wasn’t surprised, just unsure if Ivar truly understood what executing his plan meant. “I know what I’m doing, Alfred. I know what I want, and if this is the only way to get it, then its worth anything.”

 

Alfred moved back, feeling Ivar’s hand fall from the back of his head to his neck where it held him at a distance. He shook his head, “Not anything.”

 

“Anything.” Ivar moved forward, catching Alfred’s lips in another kiss, “I’ve been a king, I’ve been a monster, I’ve been a legend. I want to be something new. You can’t give it all up, but I can. This is more than just a war to me—this is everything.” He pulled Alfred’s bottom lip, kissing his jaw, “This is worth anything.”

 

And maybe Ivar was right, and maybe happiness was worth anything, maybe winning was worth anything, but Alfred couldn’t help but hear the role of thunder and know that keeping Ivar alive was worth just as much.

 

“I don’t want to lose another person.” Alfred told him, setting his head on Ivar’s shoulder, speaking half into his neck. “I hate this plan, Ivar. Its impractical, reckless, its all just dreams. You could die.”

 

“Maybe I will die,” and Alfred’s stomach knotted at the callous mention, his grip on Ivar’s arm tightening. Ivar continued speaking, “I’ve seen it though. This was the plan of the gods, you are why they brought me back here, and I can even hear them now. I hear the thunder. This is the right plan.”

 

“That’s just rain.” Alfred shut his eyes, wishing he could block out the sound of thunder and the storm completely. Rain still had not fallen, the world felt suspended until it did. “Its not your gods—they don’t care about us.”

 

Ivar scoffed, leaving one last trailing kiss on Alfred’s jaw before looking up at him, “I’ve made my own fate before, and I hated it. I’m not fighting what they want anymore.”

 

“What about what you want?”

 

Ivar rolled his eyes and kissed him again, “Clearly, I’ve already gotten that.” Alfred broke the kiss much sooner than the others though, and Ivar took note of this and looked up at him. He saw how concerned Alfred still was, not even pretending not to be, and Ivar grimaced. “Just stop thinking. I know what I’m doing.”

 

“If you have to do it then I’m going to be there too. I can’t be on the ships with you, but I’ll be near the river. When you’ve finished this plan of yours I’ll be waiting at the shoreline to help you.” Alfred was content with just that, but he knew that this wasn’t something he could offer much aid in. Even if Ivar would have let him, this plan was between Ivar and Olaf, and Alfred couldn’t be involved.

 

“Fine, if it makes you shut up then you can wait at the shore,” Ivar clearly found Alfred’s proposition unnecessary, but was tolerating it all the same. Part of it, Alfred thought, was because Ivar wanted him to be waiting. He might not betray it, but Ivar was worried too, he might not have been able to ask for Alfred’s help, but maybe he still wanted it.

 

 

“You’re lucky I never took you back to Kattegat with me.” Ivar said as they fell into the pattern of breathless kissing again. The night felt too short and Alfred knew that in the morning they wouldn’t see each other again until after Ivar had finished dealing with Olaf and his plan was accomplished. That created some sort of urgency in the situation and Alfred did not want to leave Ivar’s side until he knew that he would never forget the feeling and warmth of his touch ever again. Ivar was in a talkative mood though, and this was not the first time he broke their kiss to say something. He reached forward to trace the lines of Alfred’s face with his thumb, tilting it say that Alfred’s jaw was angled towards the moon, “You’d go around calling everyone impractical, starting fights and making enemies. I’d have to save your ass each time.”

 

“Sounds like you’d be the unlucky one then.”

 

“No,” Ivar ran his thumb over Alfred’s lips before dragging him into a slow kiss, that loft a groan escaping from the back of his throat, “I don’t think I would be.”

 

Alfred rolled his eyes and moved forward so that he was sitting with a knee on either side of Ivar’s waist, taking a little more initiative in their next kiss. Ivar might have been content taking everything slow, languid like the river, but Alfred felt more like the storm that was coming their way. Chaotic and desperate and needing some sort of release from the tension holding him together.

 

The kiss was heavier when Alfred took control of it. It was always surprising how little Ivar fought him, when Alfred took control. Ivar merely sat back and enjoyed it all, smiling a little as he encouraged Alfred to continue, to try new things, to keep his hands pressed against Ivar’s skin. Alfred was glad for that. He didn’t like feeling useless or powerless in any situation and this was no different. He didn’t want to feel trapped, at the whims or another. Alfred liked to know he had a choice in every matter, and Ivar had understood that without him ever having to say a thing about it.

 

Ivar let out a throaty groan as Alfred shifted his hips on Ivar’s lap. He pulled back again, “How many others have seen you like this?”

 

Alfred might have ignored the question, like he’d done so with some of the others Ivar had asked during the course of all of this, but he couldn’t. The question curled in his stomach uncomfortably, cooling his blood just enough that he was starting to pull away too. His breath was uneven as he said. “You know the answer to that already.”

 

“Only your little wife?”

 

Alfred shook his head, wondering if it was discomfort now or just embarrassment. “Not even her. And don’t speak of her like that.”

 

“I didn’t say anything.” Ivar brushed past it, but Alfred wouldn’t let him.

 

It had been nearly a month since Alfred had seen Eahlswith and his children. They had gone to Mercia, to stay with Eahlswith’s grandparents where they would be furthest away from the fighting and the war. Eahlswith hadn’t put up any sort of fight when the decision had been made to send them there, but Alfred could see how unhappy she was about it. Not even just unhappy, but numb, as if all her fight and life had drained from her when she heard she was going back to her grandparents whom she had so many awful memories with. Alfred hadn’t made the decision lightly though, and he wouldn’t have sent her and the children there if he thought there was a better option. They needed to be safe and far away from the Danes, and the castle in Mercia could do that. Still, Alfred felt sick every time he thought about what Eahlswith must be feeling, living in the home that had broken so much of her spirit and life.

 

“Don’t hate her,” Alfred told him, thinking that Eahlswith was suffering in her own loneliness, while Alfred got to hold onto the embers of happiness. She did so without complaint, as she always did. “She is a good person.”

 

“I’m sure she is,” Ivar’s eyes narrowed subtly, his hand tightening on Alfred’s leg, “But I don’t want to talk about your wife right now.”

 

“You brought her up.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I want a conversation about her.” Ivar’s hand tightened on Alfred’s thigh, and Alfred suddenly realized that Ivar was jealous.

 

Alfred almost laughed. Scoffing somewhat, he shook his head and leaned in to continue their kiss. When he pulled away he said, “I hardly think its fair that you get upset at me for sleeping with my wife, when I am certain that you didn’t spend the last ten years all on your own.”

 

When he went in for another kiss though, Ivar turned his head. “There haven’t been any others.”

 

“None?” Alfred pulled back again, brow furrowing. He’d lived with the Northmen, he knew that none of them used discretion when it came to sex. Ivar had told him as much before, if there had been any doubts in Alfred’s mind of what he remembered hearing and seeing during those months he was a captive in their camp. Surely, Ivar hadn’t remained celibate that entire time.

 

Ivar shrugged, again, feigning indifference, but Alfred could see that it was all an act. He was uncomfortable speaking about such things. It reminded Alfred that Ivar was human too, though he often didn’t seem like it.

 

Alfred set his hand on the side of Ivar’s face so that this time he couldn’t turn away when Alfred kissed him. “I’m glad.” Alfred said as he broke the kiss, his nose pressed into Ivar’s neck, as he spoke into his ear, “Let’s stop talking about others now. Night does have to end eventually.”

 

Ivar scoffed, but he went silent, and remembered the task they had set out to do. The thunder from the rolling storm masked any noise either of them made that night, and by the time both of them were lying next to each other on the grass, sweaty and spent, the storm still had not reached earth and all the unsaid things were no longer meaningful to speak aloud.

 

Not all unsaid things, at least.

 

Alfred turned on his side to face Ivar, watching the rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the thrum of a heartbeat that proved he was still alive, breathing, and human, for however longer that could last. Alfred tried to ignore the coming storm, tried to remember how happy he’d been moments ago, tried to forget that he might never see Ivar like this ever again.

 

“Ivar,” Alfred spoke quietly, unsure if Ivar was asleep of awake. The name on Alfred’s lips though, made Ivar breath in a shuttered breath and so Alfred continued, confident that he would be heard even if Ivar chose not to acknowledge him. “Ivar, you are what I’ve always wanted.”

 

There was no response, but Alfred hadn’t expected one. He didn’t wait to hear one either, only shifted back onto his back to stare up at the trees and the pieces of sky that strayed between them. At night you couldn’t see the grey clouds or the oncoming storm, only pitch darkness. Like this, there could have been peace. It could have lasted forever.

 

 The two of them stayed that way, lying beside each other, in the unspoken peace, the state of suspended reality, until the darkened sky started to shift colors, betraying the call of morning. The storm would be coming soon, Alfred only had to wait.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter and then epilogue
> 
> please kudos and comment! We're so close to the end and i want to know what you guys think! any predictions?


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

It was a day before Ivar’s Northmen were meant to sail down the river to attack the Danes that a rider came into Alfred’s camp with news from Mercia.

 

It was mid-day, and Alfred was in his tent preparing to leave for the river where he would wait for Ivar’s plan to finish out, when the news came. The rider had ridden his horse into the center of the camp, jumping off it and stumbling to the ground in his haste to get to Alfred. Alfred had heard all this commotion and gone out to the center of the fray, meeting the messenger half way.

 

The man nearly collapsed onto Alfred, and so Alfred had to brace him before he fell to the ground. There was a wound from an arrow in his shoulder, blood cloyed and dried to his shirt, which stuck to the messenger’s skin.

 

Two soldiers came to help Alfred set the messenger on the ground, and Alfred called for a medic. He kneeled beside the man, setting one hand on his shoulder—the one without the wound—and the other braced against the man’s face to keep his head from falling to the side.

 

“What’s happened? Were you attacked along the way?” Alfred asked, looking back to see if the medic was coming yet. The messenger had lost too much blood, not just from the shoulder wound, but from a large gash in his side, which was still leaking red blood.

 

The man’s shook his head, reaching forward to grab Alfred’s neck. “The Danes—” he heaved a breath, and his lungs rattled as he tried. “They’ve ambushed the castle in Mercia. They have it surrounded. We didn’t see it coming—we—we”

 

Alfred shook his head, “My wife and children, are they safe?” They had to be—Alfred had sent them to Mercia so that they would be safe, they couldn’t have been hurt. He was panicking though, and all Alfred could imagine was them, murdered in war, just like the rest of Alfred’s family.

 

The messenger didn’t answer before a medic was intercepting them and attending to his wounds. The messenger’s eyes fell shut and Alfred was pushed back, told that the man had died.

 

There was no time to accept this news before Alfred was calling for the army to be mobilized and moved north. Alfred was given the reigns of his horse, everything moving very fast. He was already riding out of the gate when he thought of Ivar and Alfred’s promise to meet him by the river and help him with finishing his plan. It wasn’t even something Alfred could truly contemplate though—he had to get to Mercia. Ivar could forgive Alfred for this; he would have to understand.

 

 

Alfred rode for two days, half his army not far behind, the other half staying at the original camp with Leofric taking charge in Alfred’s absence.

 

When morning came and his force neared Mercia, it began to rain.

 

Approaching the gates of the castle, Alfred could see the devastation left behind from the Danish ambush. The few villages they passed were in ruins, no one alive left to speak of what transpired. The village surrounding the castle was the same. Bodies lay in the mud, carts and stalls overturned, baskets swept to the side, with blood marring the streets.

 

Alfred sent some of his force to look for survivors, the rest of them continued to the castle with Alfred. As they passed they saw no Danes and encountered no threats, despite some being there on the ride through the countryside. Their absence was disconcerting, worrisome. If the Danes had taken the castle, as they so clearly did, why were they not still there?

 

Alfred rode his horse up to the doors of the palace, pushing past his guards who were scouting the area for Danish threats. Everyone felt the sense of foreboding unease, they all knew something was wrong.

 

The castle doors were barred and Alfred ordered a battering ram to be used to open them.

 

“There is proof of a fight.” One of Alfred’s generals told him as the ram was being prepared, “Behind the castle in the field we’ve found dozens of bodies—many are Danes.”

 

Alfred’s brow creased, wondering if the rain had muddled his hearing enough that he hadn’t heard his general right. Before he could order the man to repeat himself though, the castle doors opened.

 

The soldiers braced for combat, hand reaching and pulling out swords, archers manning the walls and aiming their bows. Alfred hadn’t fought in a battle in years, but he reached for his sword as well. This was not a fight he could sit back in.

 

No Danish soldiers rushed Alfred’s men though. There was no cries of war and battle, or arrows fired at them from within the castle’s walls. Alfred pushed a soldier aside and stepped towards the center of the yard, the rain disfiguring whatever stood at the doors. He squinted his eyes, wiping the downpour from his face to see what it was.

 

Something ran forward, and before anyone could react, Alfred felt himself stumbling back as a body crashed into his.

 

“Stand down!” He shouted into the rain, as he wrapped his arms around Eahlswith’s waist and held her tightly. He would recognize her touch anywhere—she was his greatest friend, family beyond marital ties.

 

The soldiers began lowering their weapons. Someone shouted that the Queen still lived. Half of the army began going into the castle, the others still stood guard, waiting for an attack that they expected to come.

 

Alfred pulled away from Eahlswith knowing that they needed answers, “Where are the Danes? A messenger cam saying that the castle was ambushed—”

 

“We drove them back,” Eahlswith was breathless, grabbing Alfred’s arms to keep from falling to her knees, “We thought they would try to lay siege, they did for several days, but then—”

 

Before Eahlswith could explain, Alfred saw what she meant. Coming out the doors of the castle, Alfred could see several Gaini warriors, face painted for battle, skin still covered with dry blood. The largest among them dropped his weapon at the feet of one of Alfred’s generals, face grim, the dried blood dripping down his chest in the rainfall. His eyes were on Eahlswith.

 

Eahlswith followed Alfred’s gaze and nodded, “They came the day before last. They must have heard that the Danes were in the countryside—” Eahlswith glanced at the large Gaini, who still watched her, and looked away, back towards Alfred. “They are of my father’s tribe. These are the men I grew up with.”

 

“I remember.” Alfred had invited this tribe of Gaini to his court not long ago. He vaguely recalled the warrior who was still staring at Eahlswith, but broke his focus to ask, “Are the children safe?”

 

Eahlswith nodded, “We are all safe. The Danes never broke into the castle. Come on, let's get out of the rain.”

 

 

Inside Eahlswith sat at a hearth, face turned away from the fire. In the hours since they reunited, she had changed into dry clothes, though her hair was still damp and mud was still on her shoes.

 

The hall was filled with Mercians who had taken refuge there during the ambush. Alfred’s soldiers were attending to their needs, many had lost their homes, their families, their livelihoods. The Gaini warriors remained in the castle as well. Some were patrolling the border, looking for any Danes who escaped the slaughter, but others stayed in the palace. Eahlswith’s admirer was one of them.

 

She didn’t seem to notice him at the moment. It was strange seeing Eahlswith in the home he knew she hated so much. Her grandparents had died a year or so before, but the memories of her time with them clung to the walls like thorned vines. Still damp from the rain, exhausted from the siege she’d just suffered through, Eahlswith looked like a wilted flower—Alfred imagined that she had looked the same when she was brought to Mercia as a child, taken away from the Gaini she’d been raised with.

 

“I didn’t think they would come.” Eahlswith remarked quietly, looking down at the cup of mulled wine clutched in her hands. “I know they’ve fought with us before, but that was always under your command and we did not think that any riders made it outside the gates of the city before the Danes attacked. Three days into the siege, I knew we did not have enough supplies to keep the people sustained. I kept thinking of the children, of how they would die in this awful place. I didn’t know what to do—the lord of the castle was killed in the initial fight. I was placed in charge. I’m not a strategist, I was never taught how to survive a siege. I thought we would all die here.”

 

Alfred reached for her hand, holding it in his, “You couldn’t have done anything more than what you did. You were brave.”

 

Eahlswith looked down at her drink and scoffed, “No I wasn’t. I was terrified, Alfred. I would gladly die anywhere, but never here. I would never let my children die here.” She looked up, and across the room, she stared at the Gaini warrior who still watched her, “The Gaini have never risked their lives for Mercians before, not like this.”

 

“You are not Mercian.” Alfred told her, watching Eahlswith’s expression falter. He squeezed her hand comfortingly, “You should rest. I can handle the rest of this alone, then I must leave. I need to return to the camp in Wessex.”

 

He needed to return to Ivar. Days had passed since Ivar would have completed his plan, and Alfred needed to find him. It had been too long as it already was, and now that Alfred knew his family was safe, he had to uphold his promise.

 

“Already?” Eahlswith set her cup aside, “At least wait for the storm to pass. You can’t ride out in this weather.”

 

She was right, Alfred would have to wait for the storm to calm down. As it was now, thunder and lightning were still rolling through the air and the downpour made it impossible to see more than a few paces in front of you. But waiting was only going to make Alfred feel more and more anxious. The foreboding sense he felt when he approached Mercia hadn’t gone away yet, and he knew he would have to see that Ivar was okay before it would.

 

Alfred was beginning to shake his head when a rider stepped into his eye line. Alfred looked up at him, jutting his chin to beckon the man forward. The rider was young, wet from the rain, which he must have just ridden through. He hadn’t come with Alfred’s party, nor had he been with the group who were in the castle during the siege.

 

“Your grace,” The boy bowed and Alfred waved those formalities off.

 

“What news do you bring?” Alfred asked him, his hand still holding Eahlswith’s loosely, “Where did you ride in from?”  


“Wessex, your grace.” The boy was holding a hat between his hands, pulling at the edges of it nervously. “I’ve grim news.”

 

Alfred dropped Eahlswith’s hand and nodded for the boy to continue. In the distance, thunder cracked, the rain poured against glass windows and stone walls, blood still soaked the ground outside, dead lined the fields. Alfred had gone numb waiting for the boy to speak. _Grim news_ , his mind repeated, _grim news_.

 

“Tell us what it is.” Eahlswith’s voice was sharp, demanding, and Alfred hadn’t realized how long the boy had gone without responding before, too afraid to speak. _Grim news._ There was another roll of thunder and the fire in the hearth flickered, the embers had grown low.

 

“The camp remains unharmed,” The boy looked around the hall, at the eyes that were now trained on him. The room had gone silent, everyone listening to hear what other tragedy had affected their cause. “Your cousin sent me forward to tell you though…The Northmen from Dublin had taken their ships down the Hungerford towards Ethandune. Reports said that they were planning on ambushing the Danes who make camp there. Along the way though, there was an attack. Your cousin rode off to aid them, but the Danes got there first. One of the ships ended up taking in water. It sank your grace.” The boy looked up from the hem of his hat, eyes meeting Alfred’s for a moment, the quiet hall filled with the sound of rain. “It was the ship that held the King of Dublin. After the battle they tried to recover what was left but…he perished, your grace. King Ivar was killed in battle.”

 

 

The cup in Alfred’s hand fell. Wine spilled across the stone floor, murmuring voices filling the room. All he heard was the sound of thunder—the rain, the suspension of the earth breaking,  the cold filling his bones. Dreams erupted into chaos and the storm raged on. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!!! 
> 
> jk, epilogue will be up tonight. 
> 
> this is a short chapter, which would have been meshed in with the last one, but i thought it would just be better to separate them for the sake of drama. If this last chapter left you feeling disheartened and depressed, I'd recommend reading the epilogue bc it should help some.


	15. Epilogue

 

The coast had a sort of calming effect on Alfred.

 

He wasn’t sure why. As a child he’d never seen the sea and it wasn’t until well into his adulthood that he ever ventured to the coast and looked out onto the dark cold water. After the war with the Danes ended, Alfred found that he came to the coast quite often.

 

In part that was due to the navy—forty ships that stayed docked in the harbor at Northumbria, looked after by Alfred’s cousin, Leofric. During those years after the war Alfred worked closely with his cousin to make sure that the navy would be a system which would carry over even during their time of peace with the Northmen. It was important to Alfred that it did. He rarely explained to anyone as to why.

 

Leofric’s castle was along the coast of the bay, reaching out on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the choppy water. On clear days, which rarely made an appearance, sometimes Alfred thought you could see straight across the sea and over into Irish isles. Sometimes, Alfred would find himself looking out across the water, eyes squinting to see beyond the fog, looking for something he knew he would not find.

 

In the summer months, Alfred had taken to bringing his family to Northumbria and stayed in Leofric’s castle there on the cliffs. This tradition started the year the war ended, and had continued for the last three that had followed. It was good to keep relations with the Northumbrians strong—without a war to bind all the Saxons together, Alfred had begun to look into other ways to insure a peaceful, united kingdom.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

The wind was cold, blowing in from the north. It made the waves choppier than usual, the sky grey like it might start pouring rain at a moments notice. Alfred was still standing out by the balcony of the castle, arms crossed to keep off the chill from the wind. He looked to his right to see Eahlswith coming up beside him.

 

Alfred shrugged one of his shoulders, turning back to the water. “Nothing. Looks like there will be a storm.”

 

“There’s always a storm.” Eahlswith kept towards the wall near the doorway, like she planned on going back inside the stone fortress soon. She too looked very cold, with a scarf draped around her hair and shoulders, body pulled tight in on itself. Even in summer, the coast always felt too cold on days like this. “Come inside. The servants have started a fire in the hall and your cousin is telling war stories to the children.”

 

Alfred turned his head towards her, raising an eyebrow, “Is that meant to convince me?”

 

Eahlswith gave him a flat look, but it made Alfred quirk his lips in a smile. “Join your family, Alfred. Waiting out here will just make you feel lonely.”

 

“I’m not lonely.” And Alfred wasn’t, he hadn’t been for many years, but that wasn’t what Eahlswith had really meant, and by the look on her face she knew that he knew this.

 

“You’re alone, and waiting and waiting, and looking out at the storm and convincing yourself that you’ll have to wait even longer.”

 

Alfred tipped his head down, hands curling along the rails of the balcony as he tried to hide his grimaced expression. Eahlswith knew him too well though, and he wasn’t surprised when he felt her touch his shoulder, suddenly beside him at the balcony edge.

 

“I’m not waiting,” Alfred told her, “I’m just watching.”

 

“The waves? There’s nothing out there. All summer there has been nothing out there.”

 

Alfred looked up at her. She was standing very close, their arms bumping comfortably against one another’s. It was companionable, comfortable. After the war it had been difficult to get that way again. Sometime during the course of it they had grown apart, almost like strangers, but they’d eventually found their way back. Eahlswith grounded Alfred to his reality, she kept him constant and on the right path. Sometimes her footing in reality was too strong though.

 

Alfred knew that they had been talking about him, but Alfred suddenly became more concerned with talking about Eahlswith. She had a far off, terse expression on her face as she too now watched the waves. Alfred glanced over his shoulder at the doorway, and beyond it he saw the large Gaini guard standing some ways away watching them.

 

“Are you happy, Eahlswith?”

 

 

The question was blunt. Alfred usually tried to resist such straightforward questions the best he could, but being direct was sometimes necessary.

 

Eahlswith laughed, quiet, as she glimpsed up at Alfred who was only just turning away from the door and then she looked back at the sea. “What a strange question. Are you happy, Alfred?”

 

“You’re avoiding what I asked.”

 

“You used to let me avoid your questions.” Eahlswith didn’t sound wistful for such a time, despite the bitter hint her words implied. She leaned her arms against the railing and breathed in some of that cold, salty, northern air from across the sea. “Do you remember that? All those nights we’d drink together. I think that was the only time I felt that I could ever be honest.”

 

“And now?” Alfred thought of all the things that had changed in the last three years since the war ended.

 

In that time, Alfred had invited some of the Gaini to serve in his guard as thanks for saving Eahlswith and his children during that ambush in the war. One of those guards ended up being Mucel, the warrior who had known Eahlswith when she was a child still living under her father’s rule in the Gaini tribes. Alfred had recognized the warrior as the one who watched Eahlswith so closely after that attack and from some of the feasts the Gaini were invited to.

 

Alfred knew very little about the warrior Mucel, but when Alfred began electing a guard to serve as Eahlswith’s protection, Mucel was the first to volunteer. Even now, Alfred could remember how angry Eahlswith had been about that, telling Alfred that he had to refuse Mucel’s choice. The warrior had insisted though, and as he had been the one to lead the force that saved his family from the Danish ambush, Alfred felt little room to refuse such a reasonable request. More so, Alfred didn’t want to refuse it. Eahlswith needed the Gaini, more than for just protection, but so that she could feel a part of something again.

 

Mucel and another warrior joined the guard after that night. Alfred watched Mucel and Eahlswith interactions for the next following weeks very closely. In the end, he found that Eahlswith’s demands that Mucel not join the guard were for very different reasons than he had expected.

 

Eahlswith looked towards the balcony door, the hard look on her face soften as she saw Mucel watching her from beyond it. The side of his lip quirked up in a lopsided grin, eyes warm as they looked on at her. All of this was only momentarily though, before Eahlswith was trying to cover it up, and glanced away indifferently.

 

“I’m happy now,” Eahlswith answered with a quiet, cautiously hopeful voice, like she was afraid that saying she was happy out loud might break the feeling somehow and leave her feeling cold and alone again. It wouldn’t, Alfred would be sure that it wouldn’t; not that he needed too, as Alfred was certain that Mucel would move hell and earth to insure Eahlswith never feel so alone and empty ever again. Eahlswith looked back up at Alfred again and bent an eyebrow, “Are you?”

 

Alfred’s smile was sad, he looked back towards the sea, at the oncoming storm, at the endless miles of water dividing him. “I am, more so than I have ever been I think. I have my family, I have my kingdom, what more could I need?”

 

Eahlswith rolled her eyes and stood up on her toes, leaning in close to Alfred and whispering, “Then come join your family inside the hall and prove that to me.”

 

She left his side, leaving the space feeling cold. She hovered by the door for him, until Alfred turned from the sea to follow her. It was foolish, but as he walked away, Alfred felt the sea still staring back at him, watching him go, doing nothing to call him back to the shores.

 

 

Warmth was not unfamiliar now. Alfred felt it deep from inside his chest and it rarely ever left him. It did not feel complete though—half of Alfred’s soul always felt missing, taken by a dream and held captive in that world of unrealities. Perhaps that is where it always belonged.

 

The hall was loud, many voices carrying over each other. The fire blazed in the hearth, filling the hall with a warm orange glow that stood as a contrast to the saturated seascape outside the stone walls of the keep.

 

Edward was lounging beside the hearth, arm bent over one knee while the other stretched out in front of him. He was taller now, long limbs and boyish features that betrayed his age. He looked more like Eahlswith than he did Alfred, and Alfred was grateful for that—hopefully, the boy would get his mother’s practicality as well.

 

Leofric was sitting on a chair beside the hearth, telling an exaggerated story from some battle Alfred only faintly recalled. He and his cousin had gotten closer after the war and Alfred wasn’t sure what that could be accounted for. Leofric had agreed to house and maintain half of Alfred’s navy though, doing so without much inquiry as to why Alfred wanted ships to stand guard against the fairly docile Irish isles.

 

Since Ivar’s death in the war, Dublin had been taken over by a king named Auisle, who wasn’t much of a warmonger according to the reports Alfred heard. Instead, Auisle kept mostly inland, away from the Irish sea. The Northmen who once lived in Dublin had traveled out of the region, expanding inland as well. Some made farms in Wessex as a reward for their help in the war, but after the death of their leader, many of them returned home to the north. The traders who came across the Irish sea were mostly Celts, who were more interested in trading than starting wars and gaining land.

 

Besides Edward was his brother, Athelweard. He looked up as Alfred entered the hall with Eahlswith and smiled. His arm had healed since it was broken so many years ago, but at the wrist, Alfred could still spot a slight bend that shouldn’t have been there. It didn’t ever hinder the boy, and no one else had noticed it; Alfred never remarked on it, though sometimes he would stare at it while Athelweard and Edward were practicing in the field and lose his train of thought.

 

Alfred leaned against the wall beside the hearth and listened to his cousin tell the story. It was about a battle near the end of the war, one which Alfred was starting to remember. Leofric told it like it was some grand, heroic victory, but Alfred only remembered the casualties that followed it—how supplies were running low, and weapons were scarce, and Alfred was trying to win a war when all he was thinking about was all the things he could have done better to avoid it entirely.

 

Athelweard laughed during a livelier part of the story, where Leofric described their navy taking in water mid-battle. Edward knocked his brother’s shoulder, but he was trying to repress a smile too. The navy had much improved since the end of the war. Leofric had promised to take the boys to see the ships during their summer in Northumbria and they had been interested in hearing all the stories about the navy since then.

 

The stones Alfred leaned against suddenly felt too warm and so he pushed away from the wall. One man offered him a pint of ale, but Alfred turned it down, looking around the hall. A performer was playing the lute beside the window, looking out into the misty fog, some servants were lighting candles around the room to prepare for nightfall. Eahlswith and Mucel were standing near each other, neither touching, but close enough to know that the other could if they ever chose too. It was quiet, peaceful. Alfred stood alone watching it all.

 

He tried to stay in the hall as long as he could, but like before he started gravitating to the balcony again after a few hours had passed. Leofric was telling a new war story, but now his audience were a few of the nobles who were also staying at the castle for the summer. The boys were running around the hall, playing some game with each other and Eahlswith and her guard were nowhere to be seen.

 

Alfred glanced towards the open balcony again. He could hear the waves crashing against the stone base of the cliff the castle sat on. It still had not begun to rain in fervent, but Alfred knew it would soon. The sky had turned darker, the clouds twisting in greys, so heavy that they almost touched the sea.

 

“Father,”

 

Alfred looked down and saw his daughter Aethelflaed. She was five now, small and dainty, with too large eyes and pale skin against dark wavy hair. Some in the court said that she most favored Alfred in appearance, unlike his sons who both looked like Eahlswith.

 

“What is it?” Alfred crouched down to her height, his back towards the balcony door as he addressed her. Aethelflaed’s nurse was nowhere to be seen. Alfred spoke gently to his daughter, who’s hair was mussed and eyes heavy like she’d been sleeping before. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

 

Aethelflaed looked down at her toes, “I couldn’t.”

 

Alfred’s frown deepened and he looked away from her to try and find the nurse maid again. “Why couldn’t you?”

 

“I had a nightmare.” Aethelflaed whispered softly, and now Alfred looked at her again.

 

He reached his hand out to bring her into a hug, the child burying her face into his shoulder. He rubbed her back soothingly. He was not needed in the hall anymore and so he told her, “Here, I’ll bring you back to your rooms and stay with you until you fall asleep again.”  


“No,” Aethelflaed pulled away from him before he could pick her up. She shook her head again, “No, I don’t want to sleep. The nightmare will come back.”

 

Alfred pressed his lips together and looked around the hall one last time before grabbing her hand and pulling his daughter towards the balcony where there would be less noise. “Come on, we can sit out here and you can tell me about it.”

 

This was not the first nightmare Aethelflaed had been plagued with. Ever since the war ended she suffered nightmares every night. Eahlswith tried taking her to the priest, but none of their blessings proved any avail. The nightmares always persisted.

 

“You were in it father.” Aethelflaed told Alfred as they sat beside each other watching the waves In between the stone gaps in the balcony. “You were in a battle fighting a monster.”

 

“A monster?” Alfred asked her, and Aethelflaed nodded.

 

“It kept trying to kill you.” Her voice was tiny, like a bell, and as she told Alfred of her nightmare she did not sound nearly as afraid as when Alfred had told that he would take her back to sleep. Aethelflaed sounded calm, dreamlike even, as she recounted what she had seen while asleep.

 

It was unnerving.

 

“You don’t need to be afraid of that.” Alfred told her softly.

 

Aetherlflaed looked up at him, “Mother says that monsters don’t exist. That god will protect me from anything that will hurt me. Will they protect you too? Aren’t you afraid?”

 

Alfred smiled faintly. He could hear the thunder cracking in the distance, somewhere far beyond the waves. He shook his head, “I’m not afraid of monsters.” Alfred told her, “You shouldn’t be either.”

 

“Because they are not real?”

 

“Because they don’t always want to hurt you.” Alfred chided gently, bringing one leg towards his chest and setting his arms around it. “God will only protect you so much—sometimes he wants us to do the rest. Something is only a monster until you get to know it, if you are afraid of the ones in your dreams, perhaps God only wants you to learn their names. Maybe they think we are monsters too.”

 

“Have you ever had nightmares, father?” Aethelflaed asked, moving closer to him as thunder struck the air again.

 

“None that I am afraid of.” Alfred told her truthfully, “I’ve learned all my monster’s names.”

 

 

In the early morning the rain still had not begun to fall. The thunder and lightning of the night before had never touched land, and the grey clouds still clung to the earth. In the daylight it made everything heavy and humid, the salt from the sea making the feeling of cloying sweat even worse.

 

Alfred sat uneasily in the hall, looking over some letters from Wessex speaking of how things had been going without him there the last few weeks. He would need to return home soon, even if Eahlswith and the children stayed behind for the remainder of the summer, but Alfred was still waiting for something and he could not make himself leave just yet.

 

Perhaps he was just waiting for the rain.

 

It was still early enough that the hall was empty, save for the servants who were cleaning up anything from the night before. Alfred sat at a long table by himself, reading the letter in his hands with the soft light coming from the window. The sound of his cousin’s, Leofric, boots echoed when he came into the hall and Alfred glanced up from where he sat.

 

There was dirt on Leofric’s boots, which tracked spots into the hall that the servants then rushed to clean up. Alfred frowned at that, wondering if he ought to say something to Leofric about it. He might have, but his cousin was out of breath, smelling more like the salt and sea than he would have if he spent the morning riding around the country side.

 

“You’re awake.” Leofric took off his hat and set it on the table beside Alfred’s letters. “I forget how early you awake. If I had known you were up, I would have asked you to go riding with me.”

 

Alfred shrugged a shoulder, moving some of his letters out of the way of Leofric’s damp hat. “This weather doesn’t benefit riding. If I have the choice, I think I’ll stay inside until the rain passes. The air is too humid as it is now. Perhaps when Edward awakes he’ll go riding with you, if you truly want the company. He enjoys riding in this sort of weather, God knows why.”

 

Leofric laughed, taking a seat beside Alfred at the table and waving a servant to bring him a drink, “I didn’t mean I wanted company, cousin. I only meant that it would have saved us both some time if I had. I went riding down to the harbor this morning—”  


“To inspect the navy?”

 

Leofric shook his head, “No, early this morning some ships were spotted at the horizon. Celtic traders. They made land a few hours ago and are unloading their ships at the docks. I went down there to be sure that they were only merchants. Anyway, I know your interest in their goods— Alfred?”

 

Alfred was folding his letters and calling over one of his servants to put them away. He asked another to go prepare his horse. Alfred looked down at his cousin though he barely paid him any mind amongst his rush. “Thank you, Leofric. I must go.”

 

And Alfred went. Out towards the gate, mounting his horse and riding out down the rocky hillside to the harbor.

 

 

The sky was misting, the grey tinge of the earth spreading outward, morning reaching up in the sky, trying to burn away the clouds of humidity, but failing. Closer to the shore the sea sounded louder, waves crashing onto the pebble beach. Alfred had to abandon his horse at the start of the harbor, knowing from experience that it was easier to walk among the traders than anything else. He didn’t want to gain attention, Alfred wanted to be anonymous.

 

There were several small ships pulled up onto the shore. The Celtic vessels have a familiar presence on this beach, often coming to trade with their neighbors across the sea. They came most often in the summertime, after they had made their initial harvest and had the most wares to sell to the Northumbrians.

 

Alfred pulled the hood of his cloak up, his hair already damp from the misty ride to the beach, but that wasn’t the point. Alfred wanted to pass by the Celtic traders without notice, he especially didn’t want to be seen by the few Northumbrians who were already coming down from the hills to see what the Celts had brought over this summer.

 

It was noisy, people shouting in different languages as they hefted the boats up on the shore and unloaded their cargo. People were already starting to barter for goods, others were just helping the Celts get their boats to land. Off across the water, Alfred could see several other ships coming towards the shore—more Celts arriving to trade.

 

Alfred paid all of it no mind. His eyes brushed past the different boats and sailors, a knot in his stomach which grew more tangled with each passing moment. He wandered down the shore some more, until he saw a boat he recognized.

 

It belonged to an old man, a Northumbrian who went to live in Dublin during the war with the Danes. Alfred knew little about the man, only that ever since Alfred began coming to the coast every summer, the man was there as well, coming with the Celts from Dublin to trade whatever he had farmed during the spring season. The man tipped his head when he saw Alfred, and Alfred strayed over towards him.

 

“You back again this year?” The man asked, voice rough and sea-wary. He did not know who Alfred was, though perhaps he thought Alfred was some lord in the area from the way he dressed and spoke. If the man did assume this, it garnered Alfred no more respect than if the old man had just assumed he was the son of a farmer. “I’ve seen you wandering down here like a blind beggar. You’re a pathetic scrawny thing, you know that?”

 

Alfred grimaced. The old man did not care for Alfred much, despite the two of them speaking every time Alfred came down to the coast. “It looks like rain.” Alfred remarked with little else to say.

 

The old man tilted his head up, eyes narrowed at the sky. He spat. “Bad omen. I see a storm coming, you won’t want to be around when it hits.”

 

Alfred lifted his shoulders in a shrug, not caring much for what the man had to say. He pulled the hood of his cloak down a little further, feeling the wind pick up. Some birds were crowing as they sat along the edge of the man’s boat. He shooed them off.

 

“Have you seen the smith?” Alfred asked when the birds had scattered, flying back into the air only to settle back down on the ship next to his.

 

The old man was glaring at the birds. He spared Alfred a small glance, which looked very much like Alfred’s presence was comparable to the sea birds. “You going to buy something from him this time?”

 

“I might.” Alfred had no need to purchase metaled goods from a Celtic smith. He had not brought any coin either. The old man seemed to know that and he looked at Alfred distrustfully, weathered skin wrinkling.

 

There was another large gust of wind coming in from the sea, followed by a crack of thunder. It brought the old man’s gaze away from Alfred and back towards the sky menacingly, “You ought to leave. Nothing good comes with the storms.”

 

Alfred pressed his lips together, waiting for the old man to give Alfred his attention again, “The smith.” he insisted.

 

The old man grumbled and jutted his chin to a direction further down the beach. “I’d look that way if I were stupid enough to be you.”

 

Alfred thanked him and headed in that direction. As he walked the wind started to pick up some more and the misting sky became a little more insistent.

 

The further Alfred walked, the emptier the shoreline became. Several boats became a few, then two paired together, until there was just one left, further down the beach, isolated and alone. With it, the people grew scarce. Alfred past by some as he walked, but they were all either heading back towards the hills to get off the beach before the rain hit, or they were going towards where all the other ships were congregated.

 

Alfred reached the boat after another few minutes of walking. He started towards the end of the shore where the boat was pulled up on land. The waves would come in and knock against his boots as he walked around the boat, one hand trailing against the wooden hull. It looked empty, and so Alfred grabbed the railing and lifted himself up, throwing one leg around the side and climbing in.

 

He brushed his hands together, getting rid of some of the salty sand that stuck to them. The boat creaked as he walked along the modest deck, inspecting the crates of iron work that were tied down, ready to sell. Alfred bent down to get a better look at one piece, before moving across the deck towards the mast where a few more boxes sat. He looked through those too, feeling generous with his time despite the old man’s warning about the storm.

 

Standing up, Alfred caught the glint of metal hanging up along some of the ropes of the mast. He reached forward, grabbing onto it, pulling it forward so it wasn’t hidden behind the thick chords of rope. There were other pieces of shaped metal hanging around there, different trinkets and small items that were collected over time, not all them were metal, though most were so that they wouldn’t be weathered away during trips at sea. Every time though, Alfred always found this piece.

 

He rubbed his thumb over the center of it, feeling the familiar bumps and grooves. A contemplative expression on his face as he studied the crucifix. He’d never felt an attachment to it before, now it still only brought back a swell of complex memories.

 

The deck of the ship creaked. The sound of boots scraping against the wood, paired with the flat bottom of a crutch. There was the spark of lightning.

 

“You aren’t a very subtle thief.”

 

Alfred dropped the crucifix, letting it swing back against the mast, hidden amongst the ropes again. Alfred turned, hands falling to his sides. The rain started to fall.

 

Alfred’s mouth broke into a breathless smile, “You aren’t a very good smith.”

 

The man shook his head, fondly tolerating it all. “Shut the fuck up, idiot.” He grabbed Alfred’s shoulder and pulled him in, his lips pressing against Alfred’s when the storm started to rain down.

 

Not all storms brought bad omens, not all dreams turned to nightmares, and not all deaths ended lives. Ivar-the-Boneless, King of Dublin, might have been dead, but Alfred was becoming acquainted with the man he would next become. This was a storm Alfred would gladly endure. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> okay so its not super clear, so if youre confused, basically what happened was it was Ivar's plan to fake his death all along. This is why Alfred was concerned what would happen to Ivar's people 2 chs. ago and why ivar said he was willing to give up anything for alfred. Basically he faked his death, killing Olaf at the same time and then having his ship sink so they wouldn't know if he survived, then he pretty much laid low for a while before returning to one of the irish isles to become a smith. This way he and Alfred can actually somewhat be together and Ivar's enemies couldn't get to him. Its a little convoluted but it was the closest thing to a happy ending i could think up.
> 
> Also, Ivar dying on the river in the last chapter is based on an alternative theory of what could have happened to the real life ivar-the-boneless. He pretty much died on that river while on his way to battle the saxons, which ended up being the decisive victory that won the saxons the war. I wanted to work that in somehow and this is what ended up happening.
> 
>  
> 
> anyway thanks for reading along!!! I really hope you guys liked the fic, its been a wild ride writing it. Thanks for all the support and comments you've all left on the other chapters. You have all been amazing!!!! :)


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